When the Moon Fell in Love with the Sun
by Mejhiren
Summary: "It's something out of an old tale: a golden young man in a white bearskin, striking strange bargains with desperate souls on the cruelest night of winter." AU fic, based on the fairy tale "East of the Sun & West of the Moon." Peeta Mellark, winner of the 74th Hunger Games, returns from his Victory Tour to make the starving Everdeens an offer they can't refuse.
1. The Bargain

**Author's Note:** If you haven't read "East of the Sun & West of the Moon" – a beloved Norwegian fairy tale with nods to "Beauty and the Beast" and the myth of Cupid and Psyche – you'll still be able to follow this fic, though it will, of course, be much more fun if you know at least the basic storyline. You can read the fairy tale in its entirety at Sur La Lune Fairy Tales (dot com), and it is also included in most fairy tale anthologies (including Andrew Lang's _Blue Fairy Book_). There are some lovely illustrated editions out and about, including a very unique retelling by Mercer Mayer, in which the heroine has long dark hair and wields a bow. (And yes, her boy is blond. :D)

On a sidenote, I feel slightly clever in there already being an Appalachian precedent for this – namely, an Appalachian retelling of the fairy tale called, variously, "Snowbear Whittington," "Whitebear Whittington," "Three Drops of Blood," or "Three Gold Nuts."

**This story is affectionately, humbly dedicated to DustWriter, who writes the most beautifully excruciating Peeta/Katniss angst I've ever read and who made me fall in love with AUs. (A few obsessive evenings of burning through her AUs effectively derailed the serious post-Mockingjay fic I'd been working on for months and sent me catapulting into writing this one.) If you're of a consenting age, find – and read – "Bliss" NOW. Really.**

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**Chapter One: The Bargain**

_Wherever the landscape is wild, the winters long and bitter, and the villages small and isolated, magic and mystery thrive.  
_~Naomi Lewis, Introduction to _East o' the Sun and West o' the Moon_

_They had not enough to eat, and their clothes were patched and worn because they were very poor…  
Late one night, when the wild wind blew terribly against their little cottage, there came a tapping at their door.  
The family was huddled by the fireside keeping busy hand and mind and trying very hard not to hear the wind's horrible howl.  
_~_East of the Sun and West of the Moon, _retold by Kathleen and Michael Hague

The snow has been falling, thick and heavy, since before the Harvest Festival. It's a cruel winter already – a tradeoff for having our first Victor in 24 years, everyone says. The next Parcel Day is still four days away, and already our navels seem to rub our spines. It's been so cold that Prim and I moved our mattress to the floor in front of the kitchen fire, hoping to take advantage of the heat. Prim sits there now, petting her hideous, feral cat, Buttercup, while pondering math homework. It's a joke, really; expecting any sort of learning from children who are steadily freezing and starving to death.

Lady, Prim's spotted nanny goat, bleats plaintively from her bed-box at the foot of our mattress, and Prim leans over to stroke her between the ears. We usually keep her out behind the house in a lopsided little hut that Prim and I pieced together from branches and bartered old crates, but it's been so viciously cold this winter that we had to bring her in. She's pregnant, due in early spring, and we can't risk losing the kids – or her. And two weeks ago, we started pulling the hut apart for kindling. Hungry as we are, we'll never eat Lady – it would be a poor investment in the long run, sacrificing our future income for a few days of meat, not to mention it would shatter Prim – but if things get any worse we'll have to sell her. She's been subsisting on kitchen scraps ever since the grain ran out, but there are fewer and fewer scraps for _us _to eat, let alone pass along to her. Once the snow lets up, I'll try the trash bins behind the grocer's. A half-rotted squash would feed all of us for a day.

In the meantime, our house smells musty, like livestock. Prim is tireless in cleaning up Lady's waste, at chasing her outside whenever the weather warms up a merciful degree or two, but I can only be thankful that the bitter cold minimizes the smell of dung. I refuse to sleep with Lady – or with Buttercup, for all the good _that_ does me – but sometimes I wake to find Prim curled up in the bed-box with her.

I wash the supper dishes, hands shaking in the tepid water. I'm wearing one of Dad's sweaters over two shirts of my own, but it's not the cold that's breaking me. Hunting has never been as poor as this winter. There's nothing to feed ourselves, let alone to trade for other foodstuffs. Supper tonight – the heartiest in a week – consisted of four blackbirds and our last two potatoes. I'd hoped to make a pie out of them – blackbirds have precious little meat on their bones, and the potatoes were small and shriveled – but there wasn't enough flour, so I used a few spoonfuls of it to thicken a gravy instead, adding sprinkles of our precious salt and dried herbs, and baked it all in a pie pan in hopes that no one would miss the crust.

_Blackbirds baked in a pie…_ Like something out of an old tale, Mom said. Truth be told, we were so glad to have meat of any kind that none of us cared what it was or where it came from, let alone that it was baked without a crust.

There's a knock at the door – polite, not urgent – and I don't know whether to laugh or cry. After dark, in this weather, it won't be Peacekeepers. Most likely it's someone needing my mother – badly, for them to be out on such a night. A birthing, maybe? I'm half-tempted to shout at them to go away. Even if my mother delivers the baby safe and sound, it's unlikely to live out this lean winter.

The knock comes again, no more insistent than before, and I dry my hands on the dishtowel. Not a birthing, then. Any business for Mom means some tiny token for us – a loaf of bread, maybe, or a cut of meat – not the best nor the freshest, but something sufficient to split three ways. And in this brutal winter, we can't afford to pass up any opportunity to get food.

I pull open the door, wincing at the rush of wind and blinding snow, to see Peeta Mellark, Victor of this year's Hunger Games, standing outside in his heavy white bearskin coat. He's turned up the collar against the cold and holds it closed over his nose and mouth with one gloved hand, but it's unmistakably him.

Everyone knows about Peeta and the bear. It's one of those moments that will be replayed, over and over again, till they come up with something cleverer and even crueler than the Games.

No one in Twelve ever wants to go to the Games, least of all me, but when the cameras panned out from the Cornucopia this year, I knew it should've been my arena. A hunter's arena. A forest of scrubby pine circling two jagged mountains, so cold that the tributes' breath steamed from their platforms. It snowed every night – not heavily, just enough to keep the tributes from getting too comfortable. Elk and black bear – aggressively territorial and too large for most of the tributes to kill, let alone make use of as food – populated the woods; predatory eagles the mountains. I could feed three people with four blackbirds; I would've survived the entire Games on a single kill. A pelt, meat, bones and teeth and claws for weapons…I almost cried when a bow-wielding Career shot a charging elk and went to the carcass only to retrieve his arrow.

They were down to the final two – Peeta and Cato, the final surviving Career, locked in fierce hand-to-hand combat in the thick of a snowstorm – when the true muttation arrived: an enormous white bear, three times the size of either tribute. It attacked and savaged Cato, dragging him off Peeta and tearing open his throat – a gory wound, but not precise enough for a quick death.

Peeta climbed to his feet, reaching for the spear he'd lost in the fight. His right leg was failing; a wolverine had torn the calf open to the bone before he'd managed to club it to death, and he'd bound the gash with a clumsy, makeshift tourniquet, but it was clear he could barely match Cato at this point, let alone a massive bear. Even in the blizzard, his blood pooled vibrantly on the snow.

He didn't have a Career's accuracy of throw and was clever enough not to attempt it. Bracing himself with the last of his strength, he poised the spear with both hands and let the bear charge him. The force of its own body drove it onto the spear.

The dying bear crashed forward, trapping Peeta beneath it – I couldn't imagine it hadn't crushed him with its weight – but, twenty tense seconds later, the carcass shifted and rolled to its back as Peeta emerged from beneath, bloodstained and shaken but still alive. Watching from my home in the Seam, I sat breathless beside Prim, a fist pressed to my mouth, and wondered why my eyes were watering.

With Gamemaker precision, the wind dropped, the heavy snowfall ceased, and a brilliant amber sunset beamed down on the triumphant tribute from District 12. And for that moment, the sweet baker's boy became a glorious hunter. Somewhere in the Capitol, teenage girls have posters of that moment: Peeta braced on a bloody spear, standing over the carcass of an enormous white bear, his hair like spun gold in the sunset.

It lasted little more than a moment. Peeta stumbled away from the bear, his leg streaming blood, and went back to help Cato, who'd nearly bled out already. He tore a sleeve from his own jacket and made a compress for Cato's neck, but the blood quickly pulsed through the material, seeping between Peeta's fingers as he applied more pressure. However badly wounded himself, Peeta would clearly be the Victor in a matter of minutes, outlasting the most ruthless Career to fight in the 74th Hunger Games.

To the astonishment of all of Panem, Peeta wept at the realization. He removed the remains of his jacket and pillowed them beneath Cato's head, then – keeping one blood-slick hand on the compress – began to murmur gently to the dying Career. Comforting nonsense about the vibrant orange of the sunset, the diamond-like shimmer of the snow. How peaceful it would be to fall asleep in this beautiful place. He was still murmuring when the cannon fired. Still murmuring when the hovercraft came.

It was a controversial victory, perhaps – Capitol viewers had watched from the edge of their seats, expecting Peeta's kindness to be a strategy, a distraction, so he could take Cato's knife and slit his throat completely – but after his defeat of the bear, who begrudged Peeta a sentimental gesture or two? An enterprising Gamemaker retrieved the bear's carcass, had the pelt removed – as well as the teeth and claws, to be crafted into jewelry and sold to swooning Capitol socialites at outrageous prices – and presented it to Peeta during the recap with Caesar. The crowd erupted. Victor Peeta Mellark and the image of the white bear had become inseparable. Five months later, he began his Victory Tour in a coat his stylist made of the bearskin. A gesture of compliance, perhaps, but a stunning one.

And now he stands on my doorstep, majestically bearlike in his fur and wreathed in blowing snow. He lowers the collar from his face, blinking fiercely in the light from inside, and says – shouts, really, against the wind – "If you will give me your daughter Katniss –"

"You what?" I blurt, too confused to be polite.

His cheeks darken. Clearly, I am not who he expected to answer the door. "I…Good evening, Katniss," he says. Despite the blush, his voice is pleasant and even, but then, Peeta's always been good with an audience.

"Do you want my mother?" I guess, my mind reeling from what I think I heard him say.

"Yes, please."

He ducks gratefully out of the storm, stamping the snow from his boots before coming inside. Prim looks on curiously from the kitchen doorway; Mom, seated at the table in the living room, frowns slightly. "Peeta Mellark," she says.

His presence is too big and bright for our tiny, squalid house. His blond hair, his fair skin – made paler still by winter – are almost luminescent in the darkness, the white fur of his coat radiant by coal-firelight. I gesture frantically to Prim and we hurry into the kitchen to move our mattress out of sight, propping it up against the wall.

Peeta nods an acknowledgement to my mother as he draws off his gloves, but I know he couldn't possibly have missed our pitiful attempt at tidying up. My face burns with shame. "Could I speak with you for a moment, Mrs. Everdeen?" he asks.

"Of course." Mom rises to bring a second chair to the table. Peeta called at a good time; it'll be firewood by the end of the week. "Would you like tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

He seats himself across from Mom and they engage in small talk about the bakery, his brothers, the Victory Tour. The Harvest Festival two weeks ago, celebrating his return to the district. I busy my hands preparing the tea, my mind confused and racing. _If you will give me your daughter Katniss… _Could I possibly have misheard him?

We have plenty of dried mint in the cupboard but barely a tablespoon of proper tea leaves. Still, a visit from a wealthy Victor merits the very best. I dump the entire contents of the tea tin into our battered pot, compensate for the shortage with a few pinches of mint, and pour on hot water. Our nearly empty honeypot is crystallized with the cold, and we won't have milk again – let alone cheese to sell – till Lady kids in March. We have three mugs – all chipped – no saucers, and certainly no cakes or cookies to sweeten the cup. It's a feeble tea to set before the baker's son, let alone a Victor, but something tells me that's not what he came for.

I place a mug of tea and the honeypot at Peeta's right hand and he looks up at me suddenly. His blue eyes are earnest and strangely intense; I blush and quickly move away. _If you will give me your daughter Katniss…_ It had all the ballast – and raw nerve – of a prepared speech. But for what purpose? _Give. Me. Katniss._ Those words in that order make no sense whatsoever. Not from Peeta, not from anyone.

I return to the kitchen, where Prim is drying our few supper dishes, and prepare tea for her and Mom. Both would love honey, but the pot has barely enough left in it for one serving, and I've already offered it to Peeta. I would love a cup of tea myself to settle the flutter in my stomach, but there are only three mugs, and Peeta's holding the third. I nudge one toward Prim – she smiles sadly, comprehending; hollow as she is, she'll save me at least half of her portion – and carry the other in to Mom.

Our house is too small to afford privacy; still, I try to look preoccupied as Mom asks our visitor, "What can I do for you, Peeta? Something for your father, perhaps? We've little enough at the moment, I'm afraid."

"No, Mrs. Everdeen. I…"

I freeze at Mom's shoulder, feeling the weight in words yet unspoken. Peeta takes a sip of his tea, leaving the honeypot untouched. For all his social pleasantries, he's made no move to remove the white bearskin. Mom gestures encouragingly for him to continue.

He looks up at her – only at her – and his bright eyes are steady as he speaks. "If you will give me your daughter Katniss – to come and live with me in my Victor's Residence – I will make you as rich as you are now poor."

A stunned, disbelieving silence envelopes the house. Like our blackbird pie, it's something out of an old tale: a golden young man in a white bearskin, striking strange bargains with desperate souls on the cruelest night of winter. My pulse pounds at my temples, heavy and resonant as a tribute cannon. I seem to have forgotten how to breathe.

Mom recovers her voice first. "I beg your pardon?"

Peeta tries again, appearing – for the first time in his life – to be lost for words. "If you will give me your daughter Katniss –"

"Do you want to marry her?" Mom interrupts, frowning. "You're both full young for that."

Peeta's pale cheeks flush scarlet. My chest is so tight that it hurts. "I-I want her," he says carefully, "to come and live with me…in my Victor's Residence. In return for this, I will pay you generously." He clears his throat. "More than generously. You will have a new house, warm clothes, plenty of food – anything you desire. You will never be cold or hungry again."

I try to speak but my throat is frozen. _Give me Katniss. I want her. In return…House. Clothes. Food._ I look over my shoulder at Prim, who is hovering, wide-eyed, at the kitchen doorway. Almost thirteen, she should be developing a figure like our mother's at that age; instead, she's thin as a rail. Hollow-cheeked, lank-haired, scrawny as a boy. If I go with Peeta –

"Why do you want her?" Mom asks. Her voice is cool and even. Either she's past shock, to discuss this as a simple business matter, or she's caught in the very thick of it.

"I want…" For a moment, I'm afraid Peeta's going to say it all again. "I'm lonely, Mrs. Everdeen," he says instead. "My new home is…remote. I have a small household staff; Katniss would be very well taken care of. Have the very best I can give her."

"Why her?" Mom persists – my mind is stuck back at the foreign concepts of _household staff _and _well taken care of_. "Why not one of your brothers – or a friend from school?"

"My brothers don't want to leave town," he explains without skipping a beat, clearly having anticipated this question, "and my father needs them at the bakery, now that I'm gone. My friends, similarly, are needed at home." His blue eyes flicker to me for the first time as he adds, "I have a high regard for Katniss. I think we would…deal well together."

This is hardly an answer, though it – the look and his words – makes my stomach flutter strangely. Mom's lips tighten; her patience is wearing thin. "You want her to work for you?"

"I want her to live with me." His voice breaks at this – is he nervous? "I want her company, Mrs. Everdeen, nothing more." He clears his throat again. "Nothing…untoward. In return, you and Primrose would be assured a comfortable life."

And with that, I know he's lost her. Mom has left Prim and I to our own devices for the past five years – let us fade and fail, very nearly starve to death – but deep down she's still a proud apothecary's daughter. An exchange of this sort is unthinkable.

She levels Peeta with a disapproving stare, and her voice is frigid as she replies: "And what kind of mother would I be, to sell my daughter for my own comfort? To trade one daughter's happiness for the other's? My answer is no, and I'll not apologize for it."

I wait for more persuasive words, for an elaboration on promises far too good to be true, but Peeta only nods slowly, aware of the finality in her tone. "I understand, Mrs. Everdeen." He glances at me before adding quietly, "I apologize if the request caused offense. I give you good evening."

Without another word, he sets down his tea and rises to go, taking with him the promise of food, warmth, clothing – of surviving more than another day or two of this terrible winter. The vague idea of companionship, of being taken care of, barely registers in my mind as my paralysis breaks.

"Yes," I choke.

Peeta turns sharply about, his eyes wide and focused only on me. "What did you say?" he whispers.

"Yes," I repeat, quavering but resolved. "I'll go with you."

"Katniss!" Mom hisses, the same time Prim wails, "No!"

I bite back an echoing sob at my little sister's grief, reminding myself that if I don't do this – if I don't leave her – neither of us will survive this winter. "You need the food, Mom!" I exclaim. "That's the last of the honey and the tea. I used almost all our flour making gravy for the blackbirds – the first meat we've had in a week, and it took me all afternoon to get them! We've got a cup of oats and one egg –" I suck in a shaky breath, wiping fiercely at my eyes – "until the next Parcel Day. Lady won't give milk again till spring, and that's if we can keep _her_ fed her for three more months. Prim needs a new jacket and boots and –"

I collapse into myself with a sob that turns to a cough, wrapping my arms across my thin chest. I see Peeta move out of the corner of my eye, a blur of gold and white, as though he took a step toward me, then thought better of it.

Mom grips Prim's hand, unrelenting. "We'll figure something out."

"_What_, Mom?" I plead. "There's nothing left! Nothing to sell, nothing to hunt –"

"Please – Katniss, Mrs. Everdeen – it's all right," Peeta interrupts. He's backed toward the door and his face is very pale. "I'll come back for your answer tomorrow –"

"You'll stay and hear it now!" I'm shouting at him, but he can't leave, can't walk out of here, taking Prim's food and clothes – her very life – with him. I turn to Mom and the memory pours out of me like blood from a wound. "When I was eleven years old, Peeta saved my life."

Someone catches their breath – Peeta or Prim – but I can't tell, can't stop, can't look away from Mom's cold, stern face. She's never heard this before, and it's time and past she did. Time and past she understood the debt I've been living under these five years.

"Dad was dead and you were in your own world, leaving two little girls with no one to feed or take care of them. No money coming in. Drinking broth made of mint leaves because it was all we had to eat. I went to the Hob – a little girl, going to the Hob – and tried to sell some of Prim's old baby clothes –" My voice breaks. Why does the memory of those stupid baby clothes make so sad? "And no one wanted them. I dropped them in the rain and didn't pick them up again because I was too weak. I went behind the Merchant houses, hoping to find some food in their trash bins, but the baker's wife saw me and yelled at me and chased me away…"

I'm eleven years old again, terrified of the baker's wife, drenched and shivering and hollow with hunger. "I crawled under their apple tree to die – _die_, Mom!" I sob. Mom shakes her head, frowning in confusion, not sorrow, and the tears spill down my cheeks at her detachment, even now. "There was nothing left. I could just as soon die under that tree than crawl home and die, watching Prim die, and then –"

I look at Peeta for the first time through my tears. His face is blanched white as bone. Does he even remember that day? Is he embarrassed that I brought it up?

I look away again – he won't want to remember this part. "Peeta dropped two loaves of bread in the fire and his mom hit him in the face for it. I don't know if he burned it on purpose, but when she sent him to throw the bread to their pig, he threw it to me instead. That bread kept us _alive_, Mom!" I cry. "Me and Prim – and you! I've never said thank you, and I've never paid him back. And now he's offering to take care of you and Prim, give you a good home, food, clothes. He's the richest man in the district; he can do it, and he will.

"So _yes_, I'll go live with him!" My voice is keening, almost a shriek, but I can't stop now. "I'll do whatever he wants! I'll clean his house, darn his socks – I'll lick his boots if he asks me!"

"Katniss." Peeta stands three feet away, but I feel his voice like a gentle hand on my arm. I look at him again; his eyes are too bright, almost feverish. Can he possibly be crying too, or does it just seem like the whole world is because I am? "You don't owe me anything," he says raggedly.

"I'm going with you," I say firmly – or try to; my voice wobbles with tears. "End of discussion."

I wipe at my streaming eyes and nose, collecting myself, forcing myself to meet his eyes. Peeta looks for a moment as though he's about to change his mind – a blubbering, angry, starving Katniss was surely not what he was bargaining for when he walked into our house this evening – and then Prim blurts, "How long would she go with you?"

I wish she'd asked anything but this. We all know the answer – even her, deep down – have known it since Peeta first made his offer, but this forces it out into the open. I can't bear the look on Peeta's face. Like the rest of the district, he adores Prim. He can't lie, and he can't tell her the truth. Can't tell her I'm going away forever so she can have food and clothes and a warm house to live in.

So I answer for him, but I don't have his fine words, and it comes out harsh and a little exasperated: "For pity's sake, Prim: he's_buying _me, not renting me for a few months to see how we get along!" Peeta flinches at that, but I barrel on: "You wouldn't expect him to make you rich in exchange for just a month or two of my company, would you?"

Prim bursts into tears, and I turn quickly to Peeta, silencing him with a look. I really don't want to know how he would answer my question, and another word of kindness will break me entirely. "Yes," I say again, my voice a little steadier. "If you will take care of my mother and sister; if you will…supply them with food and clothes…a-and a better place to live –" I can't wrap my mind around that most of all – "I will come and live with you in your Victor's Residence."

Mom's shock and Prim's sniffles temporarily cease to exist while I wait for Peeta's response. He exhales slowly, a long shaky sigh that conveys strangely little relief. "Thank you, Katniss," he says. "My father will come tomorrow to discuss arrangements with your mother. If it's…agreeable to you, I'll collect you after supper on my way through town."

_Tomorrow. _Go with Peeta forever, tomorrow. But then: why not? The sooner I go with Peeta, the sooner Mom and Prim are taken care of. I have next to nothing to pack. And the last thing I want is to sit for days fretting over the decision I've made, dealing with endless questions from friends and neighbors – _Gale!_ I wince at the thought. He'll shake me till my teeth rattle for making such a mad bargain. I can't leave without saying goodbye to my best friend…or can I?

"Tomorrow after supper would be perfect," I tell Peeta.

I offer a hand – it feels like the sort of deal that requires a closing handshake – and Peeta takes it in both of his. His hands are strong and warm and easily envelope my small, grubby, work-roughened hand, and for the first time, I wonder if my side of the bargain might not be so bad. A lifetime of cooking and cleaning in a Victor's Residence for kind, solid Peeta Mellark would be infinitely better than any future I could devise here in Twelve.

"Thank you, Katniss," he says again, squeezing my hand briefly before releasing it. "Until tomorrow."

I walk him to the door. The wind has eased, but the snow continues to fall in thick, heavy flakes. Somehow, since the promise of food-clothes-home for Prim, the winter night has become beautiful.

Peeta hesitates at the threshold, pulling on his gloves. "Katniss, don't do this," he says suddenly, so quiet that neither Mom nor Prim will hear. "Not to repay a debt."

His startling Merchant-blue eyes catch and hold mine. I wonder why it matters, and why it feels like he would break the deal right now if debt was my only motivator. "I'm not," I tell him – a half-lie. I owe him my life, and we need what he's promised. All of us.

He considers this for a moment, clearly unconvinced, then turns up the collar of his bearskin. "Until tomorrow, then," he murmurs, and vanishes into the snow.


	2. Gifts and Goodbyes

**Chapter 2: Gifts and Goodbyes**

_After thinking for a few moments, she said quietly that she would be willing to go with the bear if it would help the family…  
There was something about him that made her feel totally safe…  
_~_East of the Sun & West of the Moon_, retold by László Gál

Mom objects, of course, and I ignore her. I push the honeypot at her; there's little enough left anyway, and after tomorrow, they'll probably have real sugar on the table. She in turn pushes it toward Prim, who stops crying long enough to take several bracing gulps of the strong, minty tea.

I pick up Peeta's mug, still half full, and, after a moment's deliberation, sip from the side opposite to where he drank, finishing the tea. It feels intimate, strangely familiar – the sort of thing a mother would do for her child or a husband his wife – but I remind myself that, until Peeta makes good on his promise, we can't waste even a scrap of food. And tonight's supper was scant; our bellies will be hollow by midnight. Strong hot tea will take the edge off.

I rinse the mug in the cold dishwater and lay out Prim's and my mattress and blankets. Sleep won't come easily tonight, but better to try than to face Mom's vocal disapproval and Prim's tears. Both will keep till tomorrow. I stir the fire then lie on my side, closing my eyes at the welcome warmth on my face.

I am unsurprised when my sister's bird-like weight settles behind me. Her tiny fingers skim, spiderlike, over my back as she whispers, "Why do you think he wants you?"

"I don't know, little duck," I admit. "To wash his dishes, do his laundry. Scrub his floors, maybe."

"But why _you_?" she persists, as Mom did an hour before. "There are stronger people, older people…less complicated people he could've asked."

"I don't know," I say again, burying my face in the rough pillow cover. It's still so unbelievable that I can barely spare a thought for the whys. Right now, all my brain can manage is hope that Peeta doesn't wake up tomorrow and rethink the bargain in the light of day. Prim's right: I'm sixteen, scrawny and weak from hunger. I can make foraged foods palatable but am no degree of a cook, and up till now, my housekeeping routine has been based on survival. Keep the chimney clear and the ashes behind the grate. Scald or burn anything that could carry bacteria. Make full use of every part of a kill, from rabbit bones in soup stock to a squirrel's tail, tucked into a boot for warmth. Last summer I accumulated enough duck down to fill a pillow. Prim wept at the gift.

As Peeta saw tonight, I'm accustomed to sleeping on the floor in front of our kitchen fire. I bathe in the same washtub we use for laundry – and use the same soap. My nails are torn and dirty, pared down with a knife only when they start to snag things, and after two weeks of sleeping by the fire – and a goat – I smell like a combination of cinders and a stockyard. I'm as refined as a rabid cougar – about as sweet-tempered too – and he wants me in his kitchen?

Prim sinks behind me, defeated, and makes herself a nest in the blankets. I feel horrible; this is our last night together, probably forever, but I really don't want to talk. Or think. I stare into the flames till my eyelids grow heavy.

I dream that I'm in the woods, knee-deep in snow, bowless and starving and looking for blackberries on barren branches, when a huge white bear approaches and drops a bundle at my feet. The bundle contains four dead blackbirds and a loaf of hearty dark bread, full of nuts and raisins. I devour one of the blackbirds raw, plus half of the bread, and wipe my bloody hands in the snow. The bear bends down for me to get onto his back; more reluctant than afraid, I climb astride him, grabbing fistfuls of his heavy coat. His back is broad and strong. I feel the movement of tendon and muscle against my thighs as he pads through the snow.

The bear brings me home and follows me into the house. I'm not sure how he fits through the door. His thick white coat is brilliant even in our dim, smoky house; it almost hurts to look at him. I clean and cook the remaining blackbirds for Mom and Prim and slice up the bread while the bear sits, patiently waiting. Once I've made their dinner, he walks out of the house and I know I'm supposed to follow.

Outside, a snowstorm rages, piercing pellets of sleet in a wind to peel the flesh from your bones. I climb astride the bear again; somehow, I have no coat and huddle against his back for warmth, burying my hands and face in his thick fur. It smells of ice and pine and a young man's body.

I ride for an eternity before reaching a palace – the sort you imagine in the oldest tales, all high stone walls and tiny slitted windows – and he leaves me at the front gate. I go inside without further instruction; the rooms are grand but neglected, and I scrub and mop and dust myself to exhaustion. Finally I creep down to the kitchen, where a pallet has been placed in front of the enormous hearth. I lie down gratefully, my face toward the fire, and have nearly drifted off when I feel a massive weight settle against my back. The bear is lying behind me on the pallet, his broad back pressed to mine. I feel his fur against my bare feet, and for the first time in the dream, I'm truly terrified.

I wake with a start at the pressure of a warm body against my back and turn to see Prim huddled against me in her sleep. I give an audible sigh of relief but don't lie down again. My back is damp with sweat.

It's Saturday. I'm grateful it isn't a school day; the fewer people I have to see today, the better. Twelve is a desperate district, but something like this would still be scandalous. The idea of a Victor buying a companion – buying _me_ as that companion – is even more ludicrous by daylight, and I can well imagine the questions and rumors that will be flung about.

I peer out the kitchen window rather than up at the clock. The sky is pale; the sun, if it chooses to show its face today, must be well on its way up. I get up quickly, tucking the blankets around Prim, and rebraid my hair, then I dress in a pair of Dad's threadbare thermals, an equally worn pair of corduroy trousers, belted snugly around my bony hips, and a roomy but shapeless gray sweater. Two pairs of socks, my hunting boots and jacket, a scarf, gloves, a stocking cap; I'm bundled warmly, not heavily, when I finally leave the house. But then, I'm not hunting this morning. I'm going to get my bow and arrows. Hopefully without running into Gale.

It's slow going through the latest fall of snow, but last night's heavy flakes and lack of wind have left the district unexpectedly beautiful. Every branch of every tree and shrub is outlined with shimmering snow, like a winter fairyland in the old tales that seem to be cropping up at every turn. Even the electric fence – perpetually switched off in this cold to redirect the energy to more vital areas, like the Justice Building – looks delicate as a spiderweb this morning. Once the sun comes out and the coal dust settles, the fragile snow traces will melt and our footprints turn the pristine paths muddy and gray, but in this moment, I think Twelve has never been lovelier.

I slip under the fence and brush the snow from my jacket and trousers. Mine are the only tracks this morning, I note with relief. Gale will probably show within a half hour, but that's plenty of time for me to accomplish my purpose.

Peeta's aware of my hunting, I think. He's bought squirrels from Gale and me when his father was busy – and, of course, I mentioned the blackbirds last night in my rant at Mom. I don't know what duties he has in store for me, but I'm not leaving without my bow.

I reach into the hollow trunk for the well-wrapped bundle that contains my bow and sheath of arrows. I've been worried about both in this cold but have been careful to oil the wood – a ridiculous expense, some days, but the bow is priceless, near irreplaceable. I sling the sheath over my shoulder and heft the bow, but I hesitate before turning for home. What if Peeta lied? What if he changed his mind? At the least, I should cut some pine bark before heading back. It's unpleasant but will carry us through one more day – one more meal, anyway. I haven't brought my foraging bag, but I can fill the pockets of my jacket.

I remember that I haven't brought a knife and curse quietly. So much for the pine bark. I haven't seen a rabbit in three weeks, but maybe I could get another bird? I try to think how far I can stretch one egg, a cup of oats, and a half-cup of flour. One small batch of oatcakes, or should I make oatmeal, hard-boil the egg, and split it all three ways? Mom won't have touched the honey; I can melt it down, make whatever I decide on more palatable.

Survival panic kicks in, hard. I can't go back without more food of some kind. I'll bring pine needles for tea; we haven't had them for a while, and maybe I can boil them for soup stock. I head toward the nearest pine tree and curse again. _Pine needle tea, Katniss?_ What am I thinking? It would be no more sustaining than the gallons of mint tea we've drunk over the last month. We _need_ meat. A vegetable or two – a carrot would be a lifesaver at this point. A loaf of good bread. I won't find any of that out here. I'd be better off going back for a knife to cut some pine bark.

I turn around to do just that and walk smack into Gale.

I curse for a third time as he steadies me. "You're distracted this morning," he teases. "And in a hurry too. Planning to leave without saying goodbye?"

I gape at him. "How do you…?"

"Vick swore he saw Mellark's pony and cart outside your house last night," he says. This surprises me – embarrasses me a little. I should've realized Peeta wouldn't walk from town to the edge of the Seam on such a stormy night, but now that Gale mentions it, I haven't thought twice about how he got there or how he got back home.

Gale goes on: "Sae's been telling him Father Christmas stories again and, well…it was a hollow night. Easy to see things in the snow."

I know what he means. How easy it is to dream up good things that aren't really there. Shortly after Dad died, I dreamt I ate a whole rabbit, oven-roasted with real butter and herbs, only to wake up and remember I hadn't eaten anything in two days.

"Anyway, I came by the house a bit ago and your mom told me the news." He frowns as though he's just tasted something bad.

I scowl back at him. "Don't try and talk me out of it," I warn. "There's no food, Gale."

"I know," he says frankly.

"You can barely feed your family, let alone mine." I know he'll have considered this alternative.

"I know," he says again. "I just wish there was another way."

"It's a pretty good plan, actually," I tell him. "He's feeding my family, and all I have to do is…live with him."

Gale's frown deepens. "That's the part that worries me."

I snort with an amusement I don't feel. "Peeta's a good man, Gale," I say, reassuring myself as much as him. "He won't hurt me."

"I know," he admits. He winces as though it costs him something. "I just don't know how I feel about him being…_with_ you…like that."

"What do you mean?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"His house is on the other side of the lake," he says, a strange edge to his voice. "At least two hours from town on foot. What do you think he plans to do with you once you're out in the middle of nowhere, Catnip?"

"He's lonely," I answer, a little too quickly to cover up a flutter of fear at Gale's words. "He wants company. I figure he'll give me a list of chores, find me a little cupboard to sleep in, bring me out for a conversation every now and then."

Gales sighs roughly. "I hope you're right," he says. "I just…" He shakes his head. "I _really_ hope you're right."

"Gale, he saved my life five years ago," I remind him. "He's saving it again, _and_ the lives of my family. I'll do whatever he wants."

His eyes widen in horror. "Katniss, no!"

"He doesn't want _that_." I blush, remembering the conversation. "Mom asked him –" She'd asked if he wanted to marry me, not if he wanted to sleep with me. I brush past this detail. "It embarrassed him. He just…wants me around," I say lamely. "I don't know why."

"You really don't, do you?" he says. His voice is soft, almost gentle. He looks a little sad.

"What?" I retort. Something in his remark irks me, as though what he's talking about is perfectly obvious but I'm too young or too stupid to understand. When he doesn't answer right away, I push past him and head toward the pine tree again. "Do you have a knife?" I ask over my shoulder. "I want to cut some pine bark."

Gale laughs abruptly, a short, humorless laugh. "Make up your mind, Catnip," he calls after me. "Do you trust him or don't you?"

I spin around in the snow, cheeks burning with anger. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He smiles wryly and comes over to me, shaking his head. "It means that you trust him to take you into the woods, keep you at his house for the rest of your life and never lay a hand on you, but you don't trust him to feed your family." He slips the knife from his belt and offers it to me. "Honestly, of the two, that's the bit I'd put more faith in."

I look at the knife in his hand. He's right, of course, which makes me even angrier. If I don't trust Peeta to feed Mom and Prim – to say nothing of his promises of warm clothes and a new home – then I had no business making the deal with him. And the truth is: I have no reason not to trust him. Peeta's well-spoken, persuasive even, but that doesn't make him a liar.

"Yes," I mutter. "I trust him. It's just –"

He sheathes the knife again. "Survival instinct. I know."

He brings a hand to my cheek. It's a startlingly tender gesture for him. "I don't like this, but I don't have to," he murmurs. "I get it, you know. Making a deal – and it's a hell of a deal – to save your family."

"Would you do it?" I blurt. "If it was you –"

He nods, smiling slightly. "It would be a different situation entirely if it were me, but: yes. If someone – someone good and decent – offered to take care of Mom and the kids and all I had to do in return was live with that person…hell yeah, I'd do it."

I lunge forward to hug him and he wraps his arms around me in turn, chuckling softly. We've never hugged before – we're not that sort of people, nor is ours that sort of friendship – but this moment seems to call for it. His assurance that I've made the right decision. The finality of never seeing him again.

As though reading my mind, Gale says, "You don't need to be so final about it. I mean: what about school? He might get you out of that, but the Reaping?"

Somehow I hadn't considered either of those factors. Surprised, I pull back a little to look at him. "He'll have to bring you back for that," he says, "and then he'll be gone for a few weeks at the Games, mentoring the tributes, so he'll probably let you stay with your family till he gets back. I mean, he's hardly going to leave you alone in the woods for a month while he's at the Capitol."

I brighten a little at that. The next Reaping is a little over six months away. Six months isn't so long, really.

"And heck, if we're really lucky, we'll get another Victor next year," Gale says, grinning now. He smiles so seldom, it's impossible not to grin back. "Then he'll have to stay for all the recaps and parties _and_ go along on the Victory Tour."

"Not so bad, then," I joke.

"Not so bad," he agrees, almost cheerfully. "And if he hurts you, I'll kill him."

I gasp. "Gale, no!" It's absolutely the right thing to say in a situation like this, but with Gale it isn't just words. He has the fire, the skill to go after Peeta and kill him at the slightest rumor of my mistreatment. I don't expect it – a Victor who cradled his cruelest opponent in his dying moments would hardly hire a companion at ridiculous cost simply to starve and beat her – but the idea of entering into this bargain with Gale's threat hanging over Peeta makes me feel sick, not reassured.

"He won't," he says stiffly, as though convincing himself as much as me. "I know he won't. I just…had to say it."

I nod. It's not a retraction, but it takes away some of the force of the threat. "Thank you," I say. I start to hug him again – I'm no good at this physical affection thing – but he gently pushes me away.

"Go on," he says gruffly. "You need to pack."

I laugh at the very idea. "That'll take five minutes."

"And, y'know, if you really see this as an end-all, leave-your-family-forever-in-order-to-save-them sort of thing, you should probably say goodbye to some people."

I frown. He laughs this time. "I know it's not in your nature, being friendly," he teases. "But believe it or not, there are people who will miss you when you're gone. And you've got until suppertime, with only five minutes of packing to do."

I pull a face at him, and he gives me a quick fierce hug, conceding defeat. "Until the Reaping," we tell each other. He stays to hunt; I walk back home, considering his words.

_Say goodbye_…to whom? Greasy Sae? I haven't sold her anything more substantial than bark or bones in a month. It would feel strange; wrong really, to go to the Hob, empty-handed, just to say hello – or rather, goodbye. Darius, the red-haired, flirtatious young Peacekeeper who tugs my braid and tries to steal kisses? I shudder at the thought.

I don't have school friends; don't have friends at all, really, except the Hawthornes. _And Madge, maybe…?_ I shake my head. The mayor's solitary golden daughter may join me at lunch and sit by me in class, but we don't talk – not much at all, and not like female friends are supposed to, about clothes and weekend plans and the boys they like. And our relationship outside of school consists of brief, furtive visits to her back door to sell the strawberries her father loves. No, Madge will not miss me. She'll find herself alone at lunch, but not for long, and Gale will be around in spring with her strawberries. Gale's wrong. There are no goodbyes to say, even if I wanted to say them.

Returning to the Seam, I meet Peeta's father and brother in the street outside my house. Both are big, broad-shouldered men, hulking and even more bearlike than Peeta in their dark, heavy winter coats. They're laden down with parcels; the baker carries a massive hamper and his son three large wrapped bundles and a bucket brimming with coal. I manage not to gape.

The brother greets me first. "Hey, Katniss," he says, grinning. The expression is far more at home on his cheerful face than Gale's. I don't know his name, but I think he's the oldest, the one out of school. He's rosier-skinned than Peeta; his round cheeks bear a perpetual flush, and the curls peeping out from under his stocking cap – like his eyebrows and eyelashes – are palest blond, almost white.

"Good morning, Katniss," the baker says, smiling warmly in turn. "Have we come too early?"

I think of the pine bark I nearly brought home and shame threatens to choke me. "No," I tell him, and open the door a crack to call, "Prim! Mom! Company!" before letting the Mellarks in.

Prim is standing at one end of the table with my foraging bag and a few knickknacks. The mug Peeta used last night – _my_ mug, technically. Our family plant book. Frowning, I add my bow and sheath of arrows to the pile, then tug off my outerwear and drape it over the back of a chair.

My sister looks up in delight – at our guests more than their gifts, I realize. "Mr. Mellark!" she chirps. "Marko!"

"Hey, Prim," the brother – Marko – says back. He slips the wrapped parcels onto the table and ruffles her hair affectionately with his free hand.

"Hello, Prim," the baker says, hefting the hamper onto the table. It groans in protest.

The baker always has a smile for Prim, but there's something eager, almost mischievous in it today. He tugs off his stocking cap and gloves and tucks them into his coat pockets. His thick ash-blond hair, grown out for the winter and curling at the ends, is heavily silvered, but it's startling how much he looks like an older, taller Peeta.

"What _is _all this?" Prim asks, gesturing at the parcels.

"Call it a thank-you gift," Marko laughs. "A little something to tide you over till you move into the new place." He carries the coal bucket into the living room and begins expertly building up the fire. "We're gonna be neighbors, you know," he says, grinning broadly at her over his shoulder.

_Neighbors._ They're moving into town – town proper, the Merchant sector. Blind panic crushes my chest. _They can't._ The scrawny, dirt-poor Everdeens living among Merchants…but no. _I _won't be there. I'm the real Everdeen. The coal miner's daughter, the Seam brat. Mom's a blonde Merchant's daughter, and Prim looks just like her. They'll be two pretty golden heads among the rest, and everyone likes them already.

"Now, before we go any further, I've been charged with a rather important piece of business," the baker says. His voice is solemn but his blue eyes are practically sparkling. "Prim, could I borrow you for a minute?"

"Sure." She comes over to him, wide-eyed and curious. "What do you need?"

He opens one of the parcels and takes out a pair of soft, fawn-colored boots, high-lacing and lined with fleece. "I need to make sure these fit," he says, quite seriously, but mirth is tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Peeta would never forgive me if I didn't make you try them on."

Prim gives a squeal of delight and perches on the chair, tugging off her shoes without untying them. The baker loosens the boot laces with his big hands, then crouches to help Prim slip the boots on and laces them up again snugly. She stands at his prompting and he gently prods the toes with his thumb; they're a good fit, almost perfect.

"They're beautiful," she breathes, lifting one booted leg and wiggling the foot experimentally. Marko, who has moved on to the kitchen fire, peers out at her with a grin. "But why did Peeta buy me boots?"

"Because you needed them," I croak. My throat is tight and dry.

I know what's in the next parcel before the baker opens it, but still I catch my breath. It's a knee-length coat of fine, cranberry-colored wool, embroidered at the cuffs and lapels with tiny birds and flowers. Even Peeta's family doesn't have coats this fine; his father's and brother's coats are well-worn and patched at the elbows.

The baker helps Prim – who is practically dancing with glee – into the coat and buttons it closed. Like the boots, it's a good fit; slightly large on her thin frame, but if she gains back the weight she's lost to hunger – and from the looks of the hamper, that's the intent – it will fit perfectly. The color is striking against her fair skin and blonde braid, the embroidery the perfect touch of whimsy for a sweet little girl – no, young woman. The length gives her height, elegance – and, of course, extra warmth. There isn't a better coat for Prim in the world.

"I need to show Vick and Rory!" she exclaims. "I'll be right back!" She gives the baker a spontaneous hug and barrels out the door.

"Wait – no!" I protest. "She can't go out like that! She'll get picked on; someone will ruin –"

The baker nods to his son, who is already leaving the kitchen to follow Prim. "Peeta anticipated there might be…teasing," he assures me. "Bullying, even, at your family's good fortune. Delly Cartwright's agreed to keep an eye on Prim at school, and Marko and I will look out for her the rest of the time."

I envision Peeta's brother, lurking protectively behind Prim like a bulky shadow. Had Peeta thought of everything?

"These are blankets," the baker goes on, gesturing at the third and largest wrapped parcel. "Peeta guessed that you might be…cold at night." I wonder if this was Peeta's diplomatic way of saying that Prim and I slept on the floor in front of the fire.

"But I imagine you care more about this," he says, smiling again as he opens the hamper. It's packed to the brim.

I bend to look inside and my nose is assaulted by the most delicious smells I've ever encountered. I take out a small basket of eggs, carefully placed on top, and then draw away layers of cotton napkins to discover apples, pink and firm and mouthwateringly tart at a sniff. A dark green acorn squash. Warm bakery bread and a block of butter. A round yellow cheese. A tin of tea, dark and malty and fresher than any I've seen before. A package of sausages, fragrant with herbs, and a whole cold roast chicken. Beneath that are small sacks of flour and oats, and at the bottom is a bottle of milk and a dark, dense, round cake, staggeringly rich with the scents of ginger and molasses, accompanied by a piping hot crock of some sort of custard. Tucked strategically near the crock is a small honeypot. I peer at the contents needlessly; the honey is warm and fluid, like pale liquid gold.

In my mind, I'm frantically calculating the cost. I would need a squirrel, probably two, for the bread alone. A wild turkey might cover the chicken but not necessarily the sausages as well. The cake and custard would break me. There's nothing I could catch, kill – or do – to pay for something that exorbitant.

"Peeta did the baking himself," the baker says. "It's a busy day for him; I don't know how he found the time." He looks at me curiously, a smile playing about his generous mouth, and my face crumples. He pulls me into his arms.

I haven't been held by a man since my father died. I start to sob. "Shh, Katniss, it's all right," he murmurs. I'd thought Peeta's hands were big, but one of the baker's hands covers the entire back of my head, cradling my face against his chest as I soak his coat with my tears.

I'm glad Prim isn't here to see this. How would I explain these tears? _No one's ever been this kind to us before?_ No – someone has. Five years ago. Lifesaving bread – the hope of survival – and now this. A feast, of the kind of food we could only ever dream about. What had I expected? A few eggs and a little flour? Stale surplus from the bakery?

The baker draws back a little to take my face in his large hands. "You have no idea, do you?" he whispers.

I don't even try to process this. "If we cut tiny slivers," I sniffle, "a-and freeze the rest, we can –"

"Katniss, this food is for _today_," he interrupts, his voice as gentle as his touch. "There will be more tomorrow. Tonight, even, if you want."

I open my mouth to say _No no no_, _this is far too much already,_ when the baker looks over my shoulder and says, "Hello, Alys."

It takes me several moments to realize he's addressing my mother. Alyssum, the apothecary's daughter, named for the low-growing plant with its tiny, delicate purple or white blossoms. _Alyssum – what's it good for?_ she'd asked as a child. _Nothing,_ her mother had laughed. _Oldwives' charms. Luck, perhaps. And for looks, of course._

I move away from the baker to see Mom standing in the bedroom doorway, looking uncomfortable. I can't think why; we have visitors at all hours, when our house and our appearances are in far messier a state. She's wearing her nicest brown cardigan over the pretty pink dress with a velvet collar from her apothecary days. It's been made over, of course, but is still finer than anything else she owns. Her hair is braided neatly in a coil at the back of her head.

"Hello, Janek," she says.

She knew the baker was coming over this morning; she would've heard me shout when we arrived. I wonder vaguely why she didn't leave the bedroom until now.

"You've been ill," the baker says softly. There's an unexpected familiarity, an intimacy, in his voice – in his whole manner toward her.

"Not for a while now," she demurs. "Just…well, hungry."

I feel suddenly, strongly, the need to disappear into the kitchen. It reminds me of Sunday afternoons when I was little, when my dad and Gale's would share a pipe and discuss hunting, Peacekeepers, or the state of Panem. When their talk turned too seditious – to things it might be fatal for children to repeat, however innocently – our mothers would chase us outside to play.

I can't think why this moment should remind me of that. No one's asking me to leave or even pointedly implying that I should. What could Peeta's dad and my mom have to discuss outside my hearing? _The "arrangements_," I realize, the particular details of the bargain with Peeta, but surely I'm a part of that?

The silence in the room grows uncomfortable. I hastily repack the hamper as best I can and lug it into the kitchen; the baker offers to help but I shrug away his assistance. I've decided to split the food with the Hawthornes. There's far too much of it for the three of us; there are five of them, living on just as little as we have been – less, even, since their Parcel Day and tesserae portions have further to stretch. Hazelle won't want charity, but even Gale can't bring home food that isn't there.

I cut the roast chicken in half but can't resist tearing a chunk from the breast and shoving it into my mouth. It's so good – savory, clean, perfectly seasoned – that I start to cry all over again. I wrap the untouched half in one of the napkins and set it aside. Half for us, half for Gale's family. I do the same with the sausages, bread, squash, cheese, and cake, devouring any crumbs and even licking the knife when I'm done. The liquids and tea are too difficult to split, but I set aside half of the apples and eggs for the Hawthornes as well.

As I work, I catch murmured snatches of Mom's conversation with the baker. "Your son…" Mom says. I miss the next bit, but she finishes with, "my daughter."

"Are you surprised?" the baker asks. His voice is a quiet rumble, jarringly foreign in this houseful of silent women.

I discover a dusty basket in a long-disused cupboard and begin to pack it with the Hawthornes' half of the feast.

"Peeta's a good boy, Alys," the baker tells her.

"I know."

"He was looking out a property before you said yes," he says. I pause in my work, puzzled by this bit of news. A few hesitant seconds later, he adds, "Before your girl said yes."

Just then I hear Prim burst through the front door, bubbling over with excitement. "Mom, look what Peeta bought for me! Aren't they beautiful?"

I curse silently. I'd hoped she'd come quietly through the back door, into the kitchen, so I could send her out again with the basket for the Hawthornes. Marko would still be shadowing her, no doubt, but he could hardly stop me from sharing his brother's gifts.

I wash and dry my hands and return to the living room. Prim is hugging Mom, who runs a hand over the wool of her new coat in wonder. The baker smiles at them from the opposite side of the table, but there's something like sadness in his eyes. The door opens again to admit Marko, even redder-cheeked than usual from the cold and the exertion of chasing a giddy twelve-year-old around the Seam.

"Are you staying to eat?" I ask; a ridiculous question, but the situation seems to call for an invitation.

The baker shakes his head. "We need to get back. Luka's not at his best on Saturday mornings." Luka – that must be the other brother. The wrestler, the one still in school. "Another time, though."

"Yes," Mom answers, almost – _almost_ – smiling. The baker smiles back. Again, there's that strange hum of familiarity between them.

"Good day to you, Alys. Prim," he says, nodding to each of them in turn. "And –" His bright eyes catch mine and soften. "Thank you, Katniss."

"Yes, thank you, Katniss," Marko echoes with a smile.

I frown, wondering if these gentle, genuine Mellarks could be mocking me. They've just brought us coal, blankets, a mountain of food, and expensive winter clothing for Prim…and they're thanking _me_? I look at the baker – scowl, really – and he nods slowly. No mocking, then. But what on earth could he have to thank me for?

I think of the bargain, of Peeta's words last night. _I'm lonely, Mrs. Everdeen…My brothers don't want to leave town, and my father needs them at the bakery, now that I'm gone…_

Maybe it's as simple as that. Peeta's isolated from his family at his Victor's Residence, and they're grateful for anyone willing and able to keep him company. "Um…you're welcome, I guess," I reply, thinking of the bounty in our kitchen and feeling ridiculous.

With a few more pleasantries, the baker and his son take their leave, and I return to the kitchen to assemble a feast for my family.

* * *

**Author's Note:** In writing this chapter, I developed a huge – HUGE! – crush on Peeta's dad. (I read aloud selected excerpts for my sister with a big stupid grin on my face - it was ridiculous!) I was planning on developing a bit of backstory with him and Katniss's mom but figured it would be pretty low-key and insignificant, but halfway into the next chapter (you'll see what I mean when you get there), I realized they needed their own fic. (I never should have named them! That was where all the trouble started!) No ETA on that one just yet, but I'm working on it simultaneously with this one. It'll be sort of a companion piece.

Oh, and: not sure why the Mellarks lended toward Slavic names, but it just seemed to fit. I came across a Luka and a Marko in two different HG fics (my apologies to whoever introduced the names – I've been unable to locate the fics I read and thank you personally); the character looks, personalities, etc. are my own, though the names are borrowed. "Janek" was the result of a very long web search and, in my humble opinion, sexy but appropriate for a baker/father of three/man in his early 40s. (Then again, I'm slightly in love. ;D)


	3. Leaving Home

**Author's Note:** Thank you all, so very much, for the outpouring of positive feedback, favorites, and follows (not to mention, the wholly unexpected blurb on NightlockRecs!). HG is a massive, terrifyingly passionate fandom, and I'm _beyond_ honored that my story has found a welcome here. I'm stunned by all the guest reviews (I've never had those before!) and want to especially thank the reviewer on 8/20 who said the story reminded him/her of Robin McKinley. I'm flattered and a little intimidated by the comparison!

I apologize for incubating this chapter so long. I wanted my draft of Ch 4 to be in better shape before I posted Ch 3, and I was getting worryingly bogged down in the middle. Special thanks to iluvucla, optimus-pam, and my dearly beloved DustWriter for the affectionately impatient puppy eyes.

When you finish this chapter, go read some DustWriter. "The Fire Beneath" (ooh! Or "What To Fight For"!) should keep you busy till Chapter 4 is up. :D

* * *

Chapter 3: Leaving Home

_She washed and mended her clothes, which were rags, and made herself as smart as she could.  
__Then she placed all she had in a bundle and awaited her fate.  
_~_East of the Sun and West of the Moon, _retold by Kathleen and Michael Hague

After the baker and his son leave, we spend the better part of the next two hours eating. We start with tiny portions – a slice of bread with butter, a few bites of chicken, a tiny sliver of ginger cake with a spoonful of custard – and try to be decorous, but we're so hungry and everything tastes so good that we take seconds and thirds and fourths of everything in increasingly larger portions. I bake the squash and apples; we drizzle both with butter and honey and scoop the hot flesh from the skin with spoons. We burn our tongues and laugh till we cry, even Mom.

I bribe Prim with hot, milky tea to run the basket of food over to the Hawthornes'; much as I want to share, I'm not up to explanations, especially for the bounty of food. When she comes back, I'm slicing up a sausage and some cheese for another round; I even boil an egg because it sounds so good.

We strip the half-chicken clean of meat and I set the bones, fat, and gristle simmering for stock, tossing a few bites of skin to a surprisingly appreciative Buttercup in the process. I regret that we didn't save a little of the meat to use in the resulting soup but decide that the sausages will make a fine – and more savory – substitute.

Although everything tastes amazing – and better still for our hunger – we sigh with pleasure over the ginger cake and custard most of all. "Do you think Peeta will bake things like this for you when you're at his house?" Prim wonders wistfully. "You'd be the luckiest girl in the district."

"The best fed, certainly," I chuckle. I doubt I'll eat this well again, but Prim and Mom certainly will. _Call it a thank-you gift,_ Marko had said. _A little something to tie you over till you move into the new place._ Yes, if this is only a sample of the treatment they are to expect, Mom and Prim will be round-limbed and healthy in no time.

I'm halfway through my third slice of ginger cake when Madge arrives, a small bundle in hand. "Gale said you were leaving and wouldn't come to say goodbye," she says, seating herself opposite me at the table.

I silently curse Gale as colorfully as I know how. What was he doing at the mayor's house anyway? It's a good six months to strawberry time, and he'd have nothing else to trade. "I wasn't planning on it," I admit.

"Why not?" she asks. "I thought we were friends."

_Are we?_ I wonder, a little giddy at her use of the word. "Well…we are, I suppose," I say.

"Good." Without further preamble, she leans over to snatch the last bite of cake from my plate and pops it into her mouth. "Mmm," she sighs. "Did Peeta make that – or was it his dad?"

"Peeta," I tell her, and she gives me a sly grin. "Lucky girl," she teases. "Anyway, I thought you might need something nice to wear for your trip." She shifts the bundle onto the table – it turns out to be a pillowcase – and takes out a dark purple sweater, finely woven, with little silver buttons down the front; a pair of soft black leggings – soft by nature, not from countless washings – that would tuck neatly into my boots; and a matching long-sleeved undershirt.

I know this outfit. I've seen – and admired – it on Madge more than once. It's ridiculously Merchant-class – I wouldn't dare show my face in town in it – but it would be fitting – and warm – for the ride to Peeta's house. But I can't. "Madge, I can't take your clothes!" I protest.

"Of course you can. I know what you own, Katniss," she says frankly. "You can't move in with a Victor wearing your dad's old sweater and corduroys." I look down at what I'm wearing and blush.

"I thought about bringing something dressier," she adds, "but I figured you'd want something practical and warm, and anyway: you look good in purple." She smiles genuinely at me. "It makes your eyes look smoky and mysterious."

If I'm honest, Madge's gift has provided an ideal solution to the latest conflict between Mom and me. While I was in the woods this morning, Mom took out and pressed the blue dress I wore for this year's Reaping. For Peeta's Reaping. It's one of Mom's from her apothecary days, and – as Prim insists over and over again – it looked pretty on me this past summer. As it's one of the finest things in our collective wardrobe, Mom thought I should wear it for the trip to Peeta's house.

I don't want to remember that day and certainly don't want to remind Peeta of it.

It's hard to imagine a more awful Reaping, short of myself or Prim being called. The girl tribute had been Larkspur Collins, thirteen years old, the grocer's beloved granddaughter. A Merchant girl, all shiny shoes and blonde braids – and a school friend of Prim's. That had been horrible enough. I was pushing my way through the crowd to console my sister when Peeta's name was called.

Peeta being Reaped shouldn't have struck me as exceptionally upsetting or tragic. We weren't friends or neighbors – anything at all, really. Since he'd thrown me the bread that saved my life, we hadn't exchanged so much as a word, not even in class. But as he walked up to the platform, all I could think was that I'd never get to thank him now.

Prim, inconsolable, wanted to say goodbye to Larkspur, so we went to the Justice Building. She cried through both of her handkerchiefs and one of mine on the way. Once inside, Prim – tiny, fragile, birdlike Prim – marched bravely up to the nearest Peacekeeper, who directed us to the proper hallway.

I'd never gone to say goodbye to a tribute before, but the atmosphere of subdued weeping was exactly what I would've expected. A pair of armed Peacekeepers guarded two doors, one on each side of the hallway; in-between were benches where friends and family lingered, red-eyed, hoping they'd see their loved one taken to the train before the Peacekeepers forced them to clear out. Prim ran to a group of identically pigtailed blonde girls to exchange hugs and tears.

I propped myself against the wall, feeling awkward. I barely knew Larkspur, except through Prim, and Peeta had had a group of visitors already, by the looks of things. I'd narrowly avoided his mother and brothers on our way in, and several of his friends filled the benches. The only one I knew by name was sweet, plain Delly Cartwright, who was leaning on her little brother, her plump cheeks flushed and wet with tears.

Something stirred in my chest, something uncomfortable and a bit like guilt. Peacekeepers would give anyone a few minutes with a tribute, provided Effie Trinket wasn't clamoring for an immediate departure. This was my absolute last chance to thank Peeta for the bread. He was strong, fit and healthy, but a survivor? Even if he avoided the Cornucopia and hid out as long as possible, I doubted he'd last more than three days in the arena.

A fair-haired young couple – Larkspur's parents – emerged from one of the rooms, weeping silently, and the Peacekeeper at the door briskly waved Prim over. She went inside and my chest began to burn. Two minutes – five at the most. Two minutes and Prim would come back and we would go home. Two minutes and I'd never see Peeta Mellark again. I wondered madly if I'd feel less bad for not thanking him if I never saw him again.

"Katniss?"

I looked up, startled, at the sound of my name. The baker – Peeta's father – had just come out of the room opposite Larkspur's. His usually pleasant face was tear-streaked and haggard with grief – and, it seemed, stunned at the sight of me. "You've come to see Peeta?" he said.

"Um…I…" I floundered. I could hardly say no, but I'd never been good at lying.

The baker gave me a strange look through his tears. It seemed almost grateful. "Please, go in," he said, gesturing back toward the door. "He'll be happy to see you."

The Peacekeeper outside Peeta's door was already waving me over, and I could feel the curious eyes of the other visitors. There was no escaping it. I went up to the Peacekeeper, trembling a little; he opened the door and gave me a firm nudge inside.

The room was small but startlingly luxurious, with velvet-upholstered furniture and thick, plush carpet underfoot. Peeta was sitting on the sofa, barely six feet away; he stood up, eyes wide, as I approached. Those bright Merchant eyes were red-rimmed with crying, and the thing in my chest clenched hard.

"Katniss," he said. I'd never heard Peeta say my name before. I wasn't even sure if he knew it. "You came to say goodbye?" His voice was almost hopeful.

"No," I blurted stupidly. "I just…um…I came with Prim to see Larkspur."

"Oh."

I dropped my gaze to the floor. There was enough disappointment in that lone syllable; I didn't need to see it in his face. Why hadn't I at least _pretended_ to care? Could I be any more horrible to the boy who'd saved my life?

"They're…they're good friends, right?" Peeta asked, filling the painful silence. I nodded without looking up. "I'll try to keep an eye on her," he said. "In the…arena, I mean."

"Um…thanks," I said, flashing a quick glance up at him. He was staring at me, hard, as though he was trying to figure something out. I lowered my gaze again. "I'll…um…I'll be sure to tell Prim," I told him. "It'll make her happy."

He gave a sudden sniffle and I looked up, pulling the last clean handkerchief from my dress pocket. This, at least, was something I couldn't get wrong. "Here," I said awkwardly, offering it to him.

It wasn't a proper handkerchief, but then, we didn't have many of those. Mom had a few from her apothecary days: tiny, delicate squares of linen, embroidered with her initials and flowering herbs. She kept them carefully tucked away in a drawer with Dad's old pocket handkerchiefs.

After Dad died, Prim and I were on our own for everything, "frivolities" like handkerchiefs no less than food and clothes and fuel for the fires. I ended up improvising: cutting squares from our old dresses, the ones that were too worn to trade – I'd learned that bitter lesson with the baby clothes – or even to give to Gale's mother for Posy.

What I offered to Peeta was a piece of red plaid cotton, roughly the size of a pocket handkerchief, clumsily hemmed and faded from many washings. Peeta took it, his expression strangely touched, as though I had given him something precious. "Thank you, Katniss," he said softly. He pocketed his own crumpled handkerchief and gratefully wiped his eyes and nose with mine.

_Thank you, Katniss?_ _No no no!_ _I_ was supposed to be thanking _him_ – thanking him for saving my life! Why was it all going wrong? "Peeta…" I choked.

His bright, wet eyes met mine encouragingly. He tried to smile.

My throat closed up. I couldn't say it. How could I? I waited _five years_, five years of evading glances, of not even saying hello. I _couldn't_ say it now. "I, um –"

I heard a door open into the hallway, a Peacekeeper's gruff murmur, and Prim's quiet sobs. "I-I have to go," I stammered and, in a burst of madness, stepped forward to kiss Peeta on the cheek. I didn't mean to do it. I don't know why I did. I'd never kissed any part of a boy in my life.

"Katniss…" he whispered.

I couldn't look at him. Couldn't bear to hear whatever else this too-kind boy thought he should say to me. I ran blindly from the room, crashing into the Peacekeeper just outside the door, then found Prim, grabbed her by the hand, and rushed us both out of the building.

I took Prim home, filled her with fish stew and strawberries, and tucked her into bed with a chamomile compress over her eyes. Then I went out to the woods and cried.

No, I don't want to wear that blue dress again, and I can't tell Mom why. I can't even tell Prim. I can barely admit it to myself.

"Thanks," I tell Madge. "I really like the clothes, and I'd love to wear them to Peeta's tonight."

Mom, who has been hovering ever since Madge opened her bundle, shrugs and heads for the kitchen. "Tea, Madge?" she asks.

"Yes, thank you."

"And toast!" Prim thinks aloud, hopping up in her enthusiasm. "Toast with butter and honey! We'll have a real tea!" She follows Mom into the kitchen.

Madge watches Prim, her expression thoughtful. "Peeta's taking really good care of your family already," she says. "Last time I was here, you gave me steeped mint leaves and told me not to take my coat off; now it's roaring fires in every room and tea and toast and cake." She sniffs. "And chicken soup, I think?"

"He's been…well, unbelievably generous," I admit. "He bought Prim an expensive winter coat and boots just because I said she needed new ones." Something stings in my eyes; I wipe at them impatiently, hoping it isn't more tears. "I wasn't even talking to him; I was yelling at Mom, but he must've been paying attention. He…he remembered everything," I recall, my voice a little shaky. "The hamper he sent over – it had everything I'd said we were out of, and more besides."

Madge looks at me for a long moment, then her eyes flicker toward the kitchen doorway. As though she's deciding something.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small amber bottle. "Here," she says quietly, pressing it into my hand. "They're Mom's, from the Capitol. She doesn't need them anymore."

"Headache pills?" I frown, speaking at a normal volume. "Why –?"

"Shh!" she hisses. "Not headache pills. These'll keep you from getting pregnant."

Something roars thickly in my head, like the coal train at top speed, only my ears are stuffed with cotton. The world is suddenly muted and blurry; Madge's pale face swims before my eyes. "What?" I croak.

"Well, aren't you…?" She trails off and my vision begins to clear. Madge looks genuinely confused. "Well, um…" She gestures at the bottle in my hand. "If you want them –"

"I don't," I snap, my cheeks burning as I push the pills back into her hand. It's starting to anger me now, this assumption that Peeta just wants me in his bed and is bringing me to his house for that express purpose. I saw his blushes; I know better. "He doesn't _want_ that," I tell her crossly, "and I'm sick and tired of people suggesting otherwise!"

Of course, I still don't have the slightest clue what he _does_ want from me, but I know it's not my body. Peeta was desirable enough before he won the Games. A blond Merchant boy, a wrestler, a baker's son; he could've had practically any girl he wanted. Tack a Victor's wealth and fame onto that, and no one would say no to him.

No, if there's anyone in Twelve that Peeta wants, he's already had her. I'm not sure why that thought makes me feel a little sick.

Madge pockets the pills again, looking miserable and a little mortified. "Okay," she says. "I…um…I'm sorry I brought it up."

Mom and Prim return with a hastily dusted tray loaded with our teapot and three battered mugs, milk, honey, butter, and perfectly toasted slices of Peeta's bread. Madge stays for a little, but it's clear she's still embarrassed from her fumble with the pills. Once she's finished her tea, she gives me a quick hug and tells me not to worry about getting the clothes back to her.

It seems a good time to take my bath. Prim and I fill all the kettles – minus the simmering stockpot of chicken bones – with cold water from the tap and set them on the stove to boil. Mom disappears into the bedroom and returns to give me a small square of lavender-colored soap, embossed with a lacy design. It smells, faintly but distinctly, of lilacs and licorice – no, not licorice. Sweet cicely. Mom's favorite herb. She prescribes it for everything from coughs to infected wounds to digestive complaints, and we use it at home in place of sugar to sweeten things, but in the old days, Dad said – her days working in the apothecary shop with her parents – she used to wear it. She loved the scent so much she blended it into perfumes, powders, soaps; anything she could think of.

A bar of soap scented with sweet cicely…Mom either made this, twenty years ago, or had it made for her. I realize it must have come from her drawer of precious things: the handkerchiefs, little gifts from Dad, the dresses from her apothecary days. I wonder what made her take it out now, let alone share it with me.

The kettles begin to boil, and as I dump them into the tub, Mom comes over to add oatmeal – our last cup, ground to powder – and a sprinkle of lavender to the water. The lavender is exorbitant enough; the oatmeal would have made a meal for at least two of us. I look at her as though she's lost her mind. "Mom, w-what are you…that's _food_!" I sputter, indignant.

She shrugs. "We've more now. And it's a special occasion."

I shake my head. I'd always wondered if she'd gone mad after Dad died. Giving me the soap she's kept for twenty years, adding oatmeal to my bath…maybe she really _has_ lost it.

I add a pot of cold water to the steaming tub and am about to undress when another knock comes at the door. More goodbyes? I groan and follow Mom out of the kitchen to find Prim chatting animatedly with Marko. He's carrying yet another parcel, though this one is significantly smaller than the ones from this morning and is wrapped in white paper – from the bakery, I realize.

"Hi, Katniss, Mrs. Everdeen," he says cheerfully. "I was just checking in to see if you wanted any more food before tomorrow. Dad said you might be…concerned."

I remember the baker's gentle words from this morning as he cradled my face in his hands. _There will be more tomorrow. Tonight, even, if you want._

I take the parcel, overcome yet again by the Mellarks' quiet generosity – at least, some of the Mellarks. Suddenly, I'm haunted by the image of an eleven-year-old Peeta with a swollen cheek and black eye. "Marko, how does your mother feel about…all this?" I ask.

He shrugs, noncommittal. "She isn't thrilled, but Peeta paid her in advance for the next three months. Not a whole lot she can do about it."

I nod, unsure whether to be relieved or confused by this, and open the parcel. It contains six rolls – the light golden sweet ones that we could never, ever afford, still warm from the oven – and three delicate sugar cookies, beautifully pale and dusted with pink sugar. "The rolls are mine; cookies are Dad's," Marko explains. "Sorry," he adds to me, his bright eyes teasing. "Your boy's got his hands full."

For reasons beyond my comprehension, I blush.

"It's all right, though," he says, grinning. "Cakes are really his strong suit. And after tonight, you'll have all the Peeta baking you could ever want. You'll be sick to death with it."

Prim giggles. I begin to wonder whether I mightn't have been better off ignoring Marko's knock and getting in the tub. "Anyway, we're fine," I tell him. "We've got plenty left from this morning –" a small lie – "and we're making a nice soup stock from the chicken bones."

"Soup stock?" He raises his pale brows. The scent has just caught up to him. "You'll be wanting onions and carrots then?"

Well, I'd stepped neatly into that one. I open my mouth to protest when Mom answers for me. "It'll keep till tomorrow," she tells him. "If – that is – if you're planning a delivery tomorrow, I'll take some root vegetables then."

Marko nods brightly, pleased with this answer. "First thing after the morning rush. Onions, carrots, potatoes." He turns for the door, only to turn right back again with an exclamation. "Oh, almost forgot!" He takes a large paper pouch out of his coat pocket and hands it to Mom. "Mrs. Everdeen, Dad says he recalls how fond you are of coffee."

This surprises all of us, Mom included – not that she loves coffee, which we can almost never afford, but that the baker knew of it. She unfolds the top of the pouch and closes her eyes as she inhales the aromatic contents. "Oh!" she gasps, her eyes opening wide.

I step in for a closer look and a sniff. It's not the paltry coffee drunk by the Seam families who can afford it. It's not even the expensive coffee from the grocer's. That is, it _is _Merchant-grade coffee, but there are bits of toasted nuts and spices mixed with the beans. It's like no coffee I've ever seen before.

"Ja – Mr. Mellark – used to make this all the time when he was on earlies with his father," Mom tells us – and she laughs. Truly, honestly, genuinely _laughs_. Before today, I hadn't heard her laugh in five years. "He could never wake up," she says, shaking her head, her eyes dancing with mirth. It's like watching a complete stranger; a vibrant, animated Merchant woman. "He stole the spices from the bakery stores. It made his dad furious – and of course, it made the coffee grinder taste like cinnamon. And he added the almonds because –"

She breaks off abruptly. It's like a curtain falls behind her eyes, and she's washed-out, grief-worn Widow Everdeen again. "Please thank him for me, Marko," she says. Her voice is a little stilted.

Marko and I exchange puzzled glances, both at Mom's strange fragment of memory and her wild shifts in mood. Maybe she finally _has_ gone mad. "Will do," he says at last. "Good afternoon to you all."

I go directly back to the kitchen, ignoring my flabbergasted sister and silent, subdued mother. I can't begin to wrap my mind around what just happened, and I don't want to. I pin an old sheet over the kitchen doorway – I'm not leaving this room again until I've bathed, no matter who comes to call – then I peel out of my rough clothes, unbraid my hair, and sink into the tub.

The oat water is silky and soothing to my flaky winter skin. I sigh appreciatively; for a madwoman, Mom had one very good idea, at least. I dunk my head under till my hair is saturated and lather the length of it with the fragrant purple soap.

I think about Madge, who brought me clothes – and Capitol-grade birth control pills, though I ignore that for the moment. She says we're friends; maybe we have been all along. Now I think of it, she's been involved in my life quite a bit during the last six months – or, more particularly, during the last Games. The day of the Tribute Parade, she came by the house to ask if I was going to the square to watch it.

The Tribute Parade is the one part of the Games that people in Twelve almost enjoy. It's the one part of the Games that – usually – isn't full of death and violence or even discussion thereof. There's always one district to ooh and ah over, one district whose costumes are just normal enough that the tailor's daughter shows up at the Harvest Festival in a passable replica, and a vast number of districts that are laughably ghastly. Of course, Twelve is usually one of the latter, but we hold our laughter out of respect for our doomed friends.

Ordinarily, like most of the district, I would go to the square to watch the parade. The huge screens with their sharp definition give a grand show – it's hardly worth watching the parade if you're watching from home. But this year was different. I didn't want to see Peeta Mellark dressed pathetically in a miner's jumpsuit – or a skimpy semblance of one – or, worse yet, naked and covered in coal dust. But Prim wanted to see Larkspur, and Madge was offering to tag along with us. I considered warning my sister about the possibility of her friend being televised naked but reminded myself that this wasn't the first parade Prim had ever seen, let alone the first Games. If it was _that_ bad, I could always cover her eyes.

They say the parade lasts about twenty minutes in reality, but the Capitol production crews always stretch it out into an hour of glitz, intercutting footage of each district's costumes with stylist interviews and behind-the-scenes clips of the tributes. It's a delayed broadcast, of course; they claim it's so every citizen of Panem can get the full effect of the show, but we suspect it's so the Capitol citizens who are rich enough to attend the parade in person can then go home and watch themselves on television. During the pre-show gossip – which consists of a panel of garishly painted minor celebrities, squawking and tittering about the show to come, like a row of brightly colored birds on a power line – one of the commentators teased the audience with a quote from Twelve's stylists: "We've cleverly incorporated both the district's industry and folk heritage into our costumes this year; we think the result will be spectacular." The idea of celebrating our "folk heritage" – whatever _that_ was meant to be – was curious, but no one in Twelve was really holding their breath for anything "spectacular."

When Twelve's chariot finally approached in a haze of smoke, pulled by a pair of coal black horses, the Capitol crowds screamed. There were a few whoops and hollers in our square as well – pyrotechnics of any kind being a vast improvement on previous years – then a collective gasp as the tributes themselves came into view. The top halves of their bodies were gold, not simply metallic gold but dozens of different shades – browns, bronzes, even sandy yellows – patterned artfully from waist to hairline, and from the waist down, they were dressed – _made_, it seemed – of glowing coals. The smoke wreathing the chariot appeared to be rising from those coals, whose ruddy glow reflected off the tiny flickers of metallic gold on their upper bodies. It was entirely spectacular.

The screen cut to the stylists then: a slim young man, dark-haired, dusky-skinned, and very simply dressed in a sharply cut black suit, and a tall young woman, as like the man in appearance to be his sister, though her outfit – a heavily flounced black dress with gold accents – was more vibrant. Both were simply cosmeticked, the man wearing only gold eyeliner and the woman feathered eyelashes and an all-over shimmer of gold.

"Of course, Twelve is the coal mining district," the woman – identified as Portia – said, "but they also have this beautiful folk ritual called a toasting, where a newly married couple builds a fire and toasts their first bread together."

"We wanted to capture both the grit and the romance of this outlying district," the man – Cinna – added. "And, of course, our male tribute this year is a baker's son, which makes the toast image even more fitting."

Heads in our square began to tilt and murmurs to build. Had the stylists really turned the tributes into _toast_? But how – and why didn't they look more ridiculous?

The screen cut back to parade footage and closed in on Peeta – the more impressive of the two, with his muscular build – and I realized with a start that he was naked from the waist up. I had seen him in his wrestling uniform before – nearly as naked – but this was entirely different. His pale skin had been spackled with patterns of every imaginable shade of gold and brown, just like a perfectly toasted piece of bread, but far from ridiculous, it looked stunning. His thick blond hair was flecked with metallic gold and copper and bronze. His nipples were painted gold, his lips an earthy copper-brown, and his eyes traced with brown and gold, somehow making them look even bluer. The screen was so sharp that I could even see the downy pale gold hair on his chest and arms, which had been worked seamlessly into the multi-tonal palette of toast shades.

"Damn, he's hot," a girl whispered behind us in the crowd. Madge shot her a dirty look, but she was right. Peeta had always been a nice-looking boy, but made up like that, he was something else entirely. Older, stronger, fiercer. And almost unbelievably attractive.

The camera moved to Larkspur then and I nearly covered Prim's eyes. Like most female tributes, she was dressed to match her district partner exactly, so she should've been half-naked as well – but no. Her very clever stylist had molded a flesh-colored bodice to her chest, subtle enough to deceive at a glance but thoughtfully tasteful in light of her age. Like Peeta, she was patterned with toast shades from waist to fingertips to hairline, her identical fair skin equally stunning. The flesh-toned bodice boosted her small breasts proudly, giving her the silhouette of a girl of fifteen – a projection only aided by her brown-shadowed eyes and towering sculpture of curls, her natural blonde intermingled, like Peeta's, with gold and copper and bronze.

They cut to some prep footage then, to the tributes outside of the chariot, experimenting with the power packs that turned their hips and legs to glowing coals, then, while the stylists gave some commentary on the juxtaposition of coals and toast in their design, they showed a short clip of Peeta and Larkspur in a dressing room. Both wore the black leggings that would turn into coals – and little else. Peeta was shirtless and uncosmeticked – which sparked a few suggestive whoops from the audience in the square and, no doubt, screams of delight from viewers in the Capitol – and he was painting the subtle toast-like pattern on Larkspur's flesh-colored bodice while her prep team looked on with interest. (That, in my opinion, was the one thing we'd seen so far that merited any real enthusiasm: Peeta Mellark could _paint_.) Larkspur's face and hair were still their natural color, though her hair was already piled up in curls.

"Larkspur!" Prim cried with real delight.

And that's how the Capitol gets you. That one moment where you see the beauty in the Games, where you start to admire or even envy your district's tributes. I almost shook her, reminded her of what was really going on, but…well, Prim was already wise beyond her years. She'd remember the horror all too soon.

In the meantime, neither of our tributes would have difficulty attracting sponsors. Even scrubbed free of makeup, Larkspur was a beauty, and Peeta…golden and muscular as he was in that chariot, he looked like a Career. The Gamemakers must have thought so too, because two nights later when their scores were revealed, Peeta pulled an impressive nine. Larkspur came out with a five.

Two nights after that came the interviews with Caesar Flickerman – the last part of the Games that anyone in Twelve can bear to watch, though not, of course, the last part that we're made to watch. Madge invited us down to the square again, and I figured: why not? Let Prim have one last bright and beautiful memory of her friend before all the blood and blades and tears.

Larkspur was dressed – again, older than her years, though she had the poise and height to pull it off – in an elegant sheath-dress of cream-colored silk, overlaid with intricate brown and gold lace. Toast shades, the commentator explained, to remind viewers of the sweet, tender love this tragic young tribute would never experience. I wasn't sure whether to be repelled by this appeal to Capitol sentiment or to applaud her stylist's gumption in what could _almost_ be construed as a protest against the cruelty of the Games. Caesar did well by her, as he does with all the tributes, talking her out of her nervousness with stories of family toastings and schoolyard crushes.

Peeta, in contrast, took the stage comfortably, as though he'd been born to it. He wore a sharply tailored black suit – at first glance, a flat, almost dusty coal black – but as he walked across the stage and the lights struck him fully, the black material threw off tiny copper sparks. Beneath the suit jacket he wore a shirt of pale, creamy gold – like the soft inside of fresh bakery bread, said the commentator – and a waistcoat patterned, toast-like, in copper, brown, and gold. Like the chariot costume, the pieces should have come together in a ridiculous whole, but instead the effect was stunningly attractive.

Caesar greeted him enthusiastically. "Welcome, Peeta! I think I speak for everyone here when I say that your appearance in the Tribute Parade was the most _delicious_ we've seen in quite a while." The Capitol audience tittered wildly, men and women alike, though the joke fell painfully flat in Twelve. There wasn't so much as a chuckle in our square at Caesar's quip. "I imagine there isn't a girl in District Twelve who wouldn't want to be invited to _that_ toasting!" he teased.

The Capitol audience roared at the innuendo and Peeta laughed in turn, blushing. "I don't usually show that much skin, Caesar," he answered. "I was worried I might look a little underdone." Everyone laughed at that, even the crowd in Twelve.

Caesar and Peeta went on to banter briefly about underdone bread and coal stoves and a baker's occupational hazards. "Speaking of delicious," Caesar said, "we were treated to a video clip a few nights ago suggesting that you helped design your look for the Tribute Parade." The Capitol audience whooped with excitement. "Is there any truth in it?"

Peeta laughed again – not genuinely, but a very good imitation. "Well, I've been around more bread – more toast, probably, too – than most people in the Capitol. Cinna and Portia described what they were looking for; I created the spackle pattern for Larkspur and then the prep team copied it on me."

"You're an artist as well?" Caesar asked. The Capitol audience whooped even louder.

Peeta shrugged. "I dabble. I do the cakes, back home."

"He bakes and paints _and_ has a sense of humor," Caesar said to the audience. "Sounds like some lucky girl's dream come true, eh?" The Capitol audience cheered, as did a handful of people in Twelve. Peeta's friends, I guessed. Maybe the girl who'd watched the parade behind me and said he was hot.

Peeta smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes.

"Tell us, Peeta," Caesar prompted. "A handsome charmer like you is bound to have a girl – or five or six – back home, am I right?" He laughed at his own joke. The Capitol audience – and the crowd in Twelve – waited with baited breath.

Peeta, to everyone's surprise, shook his head. "There's a girl," he said slowly. "I've had a crush on her…" He hesitated a moment. "I've…loved her for as long as I can remember, but she, um…I don't think she even knew I was alive until the Reaping."

The Capitol audience gave a collective sad sigh. Standing between Prim and Madge in the midst of a rapt and silent district, something twisted in my gut.

"She have another fellow?" Caesar asked gently.

"I don't know. Maybe," Peeta said. "She's beautiful, and a lot of boys like her."

A whisper started behind me, but my mind was preoccupied, flitting from one Merchant girl to the next. Peeta lived within a block of most of them. How could any of them – any girl in Twelve – not know he was alive?

Caesar leaned in confidentially. "I tell you what, Peeta: you win this thing, you go home and sweep that girl off her feet. She can't turn you down then, eh?" He grinned.

"Yeah," Peeta said quietly. "That's…sort of my plan, actually. To…win the Games. For her."

The audience sighed dreamily. The thing in my gut twisted harder.

"Well, there you go." Caesar gave Peeta a reassuring clap on the shoulder. "And if the asking doesn't work, just break out the toast!"

The audience roared. Peeta blushed but managed a laugh, then shook hands with Caesar and returned to his seat in a flurry of copper sparks.

I think of Peeta's hands – large, strong, warm, _clean_ – and scrub my nail beds almost raw in the bathwater. No matter what sort of work he has in mind for me, he won't want grimy hands in his kitchen.

I soak for a long time, lost in my thoughts. Lady trots over curiously to lick my wet arm then laps at the bathwater, despite my efforts to dissuade her, till Prim comes to warm a fresh kettle for my hair and shoos her away. Prim stays to help me rinse my hair, and Mom stops back every few minutes to add more hot water, scrub my neck, or absently soap my back. At one point she kneels beside the tub and fishes my feet and hands out of the water, one at a time, to trim my softened nails neatly with a tiny pair of scissors.

I'm self-conscious about nudity – mine or anyone else's – but somehow, with Mom, it's like I'm still a child. My breasts are small this winter, no wider than my palms and nearly as flat. I'm really no curvier than Prim.

My fingertips are wrinkled and the water tepid when I finally decide to get out. Mom offers to help me; the tub is slippery from the oat powder, and I'm grateful for her assistance. She dries me off with a towel warmed by the fire and lightly dusts my body with powder from a pretty canister I've never seen before. It smells of sweet cicely and lavender; yet another item from her drawer of precious things.

"I always imagined I'd be doing this before your wedding," Mom muses as she powders my back.

_My_ _wedding?_ Yes, she _is_ mad. "And then you remembered that it's me and there wouldn't be a wedding ever," I say, but there's little venom in it. Mad or otherwise, she's being unbelievably kind, not to mention generous with her long-hidden treasures.

"No, not a wedding like we used to have in town," she agrees, sweeping my damp hair over one shoulder so she can powder my neck and shoulders. "But a toasting, Katniss. A borrowed white dress and a meal with friends." She pauses, stilling the powder puff against my skin. "A husband to share your bed."

I frown. She no longer sounds crazy; she sounds…wistful.

Once I'm dried and powdered to Mom's satisfaction, she hands me a cotton camisole and shorts, both a pale herbal green, edged with cream-colored lace. The camisole cinches under the breasts with a green satin ribbon.

I blush. I'm so flat-chested that I hadn't planned to wear anything under Madge's undershirt, let alone something so feminine and pretty. I protest weakly, "Mom, I don't need…"

"Please," she says.

Like the soap and the powder, these garments are hers; cherished items from her youth as a Merchant's daughter, carefully stored away for twenty years or more. Why is she sharing these things with me now? I feel like I'm missing something, something desperately important. Something in her quiet ramble about weddings, maybe. She wouldn't do this simply because it's my last night at home. I've gone through five Reapings, and the most she ever did for those was lend me one of her dresses and braid my hair up like hers.

"Okay," I relent. I pull on the camisole and shorts, both of which are too large on my skinny frame but not so loose as to look baggy under clothes. Mom had a glorious figure at sixteen, or so I'm told. The apothecary's daughter, vibrant with health and happiness; her hair was thick and gold then, they say, her skin soft and pale as milk.

She ties the ribbon under my tiny breasts and steps back a little to look at me. "You look so beautiful," she says with a small smile. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather wear a dress?"

"Yes," I reply, a little sharper than I need to.

"It needn't be the blue," she says delicately. I wonder what she knows – and how. No one but Peeta and I were in that room on Reaping Day, and only the woods saw my tears. "I have others; this –" she tugs the skirt of the fine pink dress she's wearing, "or one like it in green. Either would be lovely, and you could still wear Madge's leggings –"

"No, Mom," I say, though I soften my tone this time. "It'll be cold in the woods, and…and I wouldn't want to presume – to dress fine when I'm going out there to do who-knows-what."

She considers this – considers me – for a long moment, then concedes with a nod. "I'll do your hair when you're ready, then."

I dress in Madge's clothes – they smell powdery and floral, like Merchant laundry soap and Madge's perfume – and regard myself critically in our cracked, mottled mirror. Beautiful I am not, nor are my eyes "smoky and mysterious" above the purple sweater, but at least I don't look like a girl playing dress-up.

Mom sits me in a chair by the kitchen fire, then takes her sharpest scissors and trims away the ragged ends of my hair. She combs through the length of it thoroughly, collecting any loose strands and untangling even the most persistent snarls. Though thinner than usual this winter, my hair hangs well past my shoulders, even after Mom has trimmed it.

She separates my hair into sections and winds them into a sleek braided knot at the base of my skull, more practical than the elegant coil at the back of my head from this year's Reaping and more grown-up than one long braid. She secures the braids with hairpins – her own, though not as precious as the soap and powder and underclothes – and I feel suddenly, irrationally frightened. I'm getting in a cart and riding an hour or so to Peeta's house, and she's taking more care with my appearance than she did for the Reaping, when I might have been summoned on stage and sent to the Capitol, televised all across Panem. What does she know that I don't?

Mom comes around me to view my hairstyle from the front and smiles. "So beautiful," she says again. She presses a kiss to the top of my head and summons Prim to help her lug the bathwater outside. The sun is beginning to drop; Peeta could be here in as little as an hour. I go to the bedroom to pack.

My bow and sheath of arrows lie on Mom's bed, carefully wrapped in a cloth, and Prim and Mom have already assembled a few things beside my foraging bag. My chipped mug, the one I served Peeta his tea in last night. Ridiculous though it is, it'll be nice to take that particular little piece of home with me. Dad's hunting jacket and my boots, brushed clean and dried thoroughly since my morning's excursion into the woods. Two thick scarves, my gloves, and the green wool stocking cap I've worn every winter since I was eleven. The handwritten book of medicinal plants, created by one of Mom's predecessors in the apothecary line and given to Mom shortly after her wedding. Her parents disapproved of her love for a humble coal miner and disinherited her promptly upon her engagement, but her mother eventually relented a little – enough to give Mom the plant book. Dad added a sectional of edible plants – information that kept us alive after his death – and I've since thought about adding a few entries myself, things I've discovered on my own or learned from Gale in the past four years. It's a priceless resource, but Mom and Prim know the entries backwards and forwards, and either Mom thinks I'll need the book where I'm going or she always meant to leave it to me someday, and this is the last time she can be certain of an opportunity to pass it along. Either way, I'm both touched and a little saddened.

Resting on the plant book are two of Mom's embroidered handkerchiefs, neatly folded. I can't imagine what practical use I could make of such dainty things, but I recognize – like the powder and soap and underclothes – it's a huge sacrifice for Mom to make. Next to the handkerchiefs is a framed photograph of my parents on their wedding day. Mom must have packed this too. She has very few pictures of my father, and it startles me that she'd be willing to give this most precious one up. Maybe Gale was wrong. Maybe I really am never coming home.

I hear soft steps behind me and turn to see Mom coming into the room. She looks from my face to the pile of things on the bed, then wordlessly slides open the top drawer of her dresser and pulls out a leaf green dress.

I back away before she can hand it to me. "Mom, no," I say, holding up my hands. "You've given me too much already –"

"_Please_," she whispers. She yanks the drawer wide open and grabs a handful of its neatly folded contents – a rainbow of dresses in soft, beautiful shades. "Take one," she pleads. "Take them all. You should have something pretty to wear when –" She breaks off abruptly and, to my utter shock, begins to cry.

Mom and I haven't been affectionate – physically or verbally – since before Dad died. I come to her and awkwardly wrap my arms around her shaking form. She's thin as a matchstick, fragile as a snowflake, and part of me wants to shake her. Why is she crying? Is it because I'm going away forever? Does she finally feel guilty for leaving Prim and me to starve?

Maybe the truth lies in her strange talk of weddings. A girl, at least in Twelve, doesn't leave her parents' house until she gets married. Girls who never marry help raise their younger siblings and eventually take care of their aging parents. That's what I expected, and it's probably what Mom expected too. But the pattern's been broken by Peeta's bargain. I'm going away – not as a bride, of course – but maybe Mom can only deal with it in those terms, and that's why she's giving me her treasured possessions and trying so hard to make me look pretty.

But before I can ask, Prim comes in and sees us and starts crying too, and then I start crying and the three of us end up a teary mess, huddled on Mom's bed, holding each other. It was due to happen soon anyway. None of us had quite come to terms with me leaving yet, and better to cry now than when Peeta arrives. Mom and Prim sob their thanks and remind me that I don't have to go; I remind them in turn that Peeta's already begun to fulfill his part of the bargain and I can hardly back out now. They cry even harder. I tell them what Gale said about coming back for the Reaping and Games, which cheers them a little, and secretly hope that's part of Peeta's plan. I wouldn't mind for Mom's sake, but both Prim's and my hearts would break if we never saw each other again.

We dry our tears at last and pull together my things. I agree to take the leaf green dress and two handkerchiefs – one of Mom's and one of Dad's – as well as the plant book and the wedding photo. Prim insists I take her favorite yellow sweater – it'll be a little short in the sleeves but otherwise a decent fit – and from my own drawer, I choose two sweaters, two pairs of pants, and my favorite pair of Dad's thermals, along with plenty of socks and underwear. I add my school shoes to the pile and, with a tight, final feeling in my chest, close the bag.

It's dark outside when we return to the kitchen. None of us has much of an appetite after crying, so we make a light supper: boiled eggs, Marko's rolls with butter and cheese, and plenty of strong tea. We sit at the table in the living room, restless and silent as we pick at our food. Buttercup mewls like a kitten for tidbits, and Prim tosses him bites of egg and cheese. The minutes crawl by.

After a little, Mom goes to the kitchen to grind and brew a small pot of the coffee from Peeta's father. We have only two mugs now, so Prim and I share one as we finally indulge in the beautiful sugar cookies. The spiced, nutty coffee is richer and more flavorful than any I've tasted before; still too bitter for me but almost palatable, especially paired with the sweet cookies. Mom's expression is strange as she sips – clearly reminiscent, but I can't tell if she's happy or sad at the memory.

An endless twenty minutes later, the coffee and cookies are gone, leaving us all restless and a little irrational, and still Peeta hasn't come. Buttercup, sensing our tension, gives a malcontent yowl before drifting off to the bedroom. The last bite of cookie is grainy and flavorless in my mouth.

Mom fusses nervously in her seat. "Maybe I should curl your hair," she thinks aloud.

"For an hour-long drive through the woods? In a stocking cap?" I ask irritably.

"Don't you want to look pretty for Peeta?" Prim teases, but even she's been affected by the nervous energy in the room. "I'm going to put on my coat and boots to show him," she decides, and leaves the table to do so.

It seems suddenly imperative that I dress in my outerwear as well – seeing as I'm the one about to go somewhere – so I get up and slip stockinged feet into boots, pull on Dad's jacket, and layer on the scarves and hat. I start to put on my gloves as well, then think better of it and stuff them into my jacket pockets instead.

I needlessly rewrap my bow and double-check the contents of my foraging bag. It's little enough to move away with but – strangely enough – more than I'd have if I stayed here. Prim returns, pretty as any Merchant girl in her fine wool coat and soft boots, and resumes her seat at the table. Mom smiles at her but seems incapable of speech.

When the knock finally comes, we all jump.

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**Author's Note:** I know, that's a brutal place to leave you! I was hoping to fit the first part of Ch 4 in here as well, but this chapter was already plenty long – and in my opinion, reasonably cohesive – without it. I hope the flashbacks helped to tie over those who wanted Peeta in this chapter. (After this, mind, there'll be no getting away from him. :D)

Oh, and for those of you who've visited my profile: free lattes if you can get yourself in or near Lincoln, Nebraska. :D Really.


	4. Family and Farewell

**Author's Note:** I had every intention of writing something eloquent and heartfelt here, but this chapter is already woefully delayed, and I know that's what you're here for. ;D Suffice it to say: I am overwhelmed by your love for this story. I've fallen unforgivably behind at responding to readers, and I want you to know that I appreciate each and every one of you – the favorites, the follows, the reviews, the lovely PMs, even those of you whose presence is only noted by a tally in my Story Stats. :D The Guest reviews in particular have blown me away. I love that this little story has resonated with you and I hope that you will return for each new chapter to share the journey with Katniss and me.

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Ch. 4: Family and Farewell

_Later that evening the white bear came.  
_"_Do you come with me?" asked the white bear. "I do," said the girl.  
_~_East of the Sun and West of the Moon, _retold by Kathleen and Michael Hague

I've been anticipating the knock all day, and still I'm paralyzed by the sound.

He's here. Peeta Mellark. Come to take me away from my home and family forever. I can't breathe for the sudden crushing panic in my chest. I've seen him bloodstained, dirty, and wounded; painted gold and glowing like an ember. Which Peeta is standing outside our door? The Capitol-crafted fashion plate? The baker's son, hefting flour sacks as easily as I pick up a rabbit? The warrior, who killed a bear three times his size?

Before I can recover myself, Prim's enthusiasm gets the better of her. She runs to the door, throws it open, and hurls herself into Peeta's arms – well, _arm _– on the doorstep. His left arm is curled at his shoulder, hefting a massive burlap sack, but he manages to catch and hug her back with his right arm without losing his balance or dropping the bag on her head. His surprise at her affectionate ambush quickly warms to a smile as he rests his chin on her hair.

"Thank you, Peeta," Prim says, squeezing him tightly about the waist. "Thank you so much for _everything_." At least, I think that's what she says. Her face is buried in his white bearskin, muffling her words.

"You're entirely welcome, Prim," he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Over her shoulder he adds, "Good evening, Mrs. Everdeen. Good evening, Katniss." His face is bright and flushed; he looks happy and a little nervous.

_Happy…_why is he happy? Happy to have company in his Victor's Residence? It's only me, so that can't be right. Happy to have another servant, maybe? And why is he nervous? _I_'m the one leaving behind home and family – everything I know – to follow him into the woods and do whatever he wants for the rest of my life!

His mood irks me, though I can't think why, and my fear begins to settle, leaving me cross and a little confused. It's only Peeta Mellark, after all. Still, always, wearing his Victor's bearskin, but he looks younger tonight; recognizably a sixteen-year-old boy. My classmate till six months ago. A kind, generous boy, but a boy nonetheless. Not yet a man. Nothing grand or glorious or frightening.

Peeta gently breaks Prim's embrace to step inside the house and lower the burlap sack to the floor. "Please apologize to Lady for me," he tells her. "I wanted to send something earlier, but I wasn't sure if pregnant goats need special food."

Startled, Prim stares at him, then at the bulging burlap sack. I step a little closer. I recognize the stamp on the bag. It's high-grade feed, the kind they give the goats at the creamery. I've never priced it but know it must be exorbitant. Peeta's brought fifty pounds of it.

Prim gives a little sob and hugs him again, even harder. Never mind the rich food and fine clothes; Peeta's just saved Lady and her unborn kids. And with that, Prim is entirely his. Quite possibly a little in love with him, even.

Of course, falling for Peeta was never a long drop for Prim – for almost anyone, really, who saw his Games. What he and Larkspur planned in training is anyone's guess, but from the moment they left their platforms, they were inseparable. With his strength, Peeta might have had a shot at the Cornucopia, but he simply grabbed the first knapsack he came to and ran for Larkspur.

He pushed her ahead of him as they ran into the woods, shielding her from the blades and screams with his body. We didn't see them for a while after that; they were alive and hiding during the bloodbath and therefore – in the eyes of the Gamemakers – boring. The knapsack, we learned, contained flint, a tin of spices, a small saucepan, and a blanket, which Peeta wasted no time in wrapping into an outer garment for his small district partner.

For a pair of Merchant kids, they did all right. Someone in training must have taught them about pines, because Peeta split a trunk with an improvised wedge and harvested as much of the soft inner bark as he could, stuffing every available pocket with sticky handfuls of it. For the first two days, their meals consisted of toasted pine bark chips and "snow soup," a simmered broth of stones, spices, and pine needles.

Weaponless, they stripped fallen branches to improvise clubs and searched out small sharp rocks for use as projectiles. Peeta collected other things too, odd things – moss, loose bark, different types of soil and resins – which we later learned was for camouflage. The toast design he created for the parade, amazing though it had been, paled in comparison to his masterpieces in the arena. Every night until her last, he wrapped Larkspur in the blanket in his arms and literally painted them both into a tree trunk or rock formation.

Peeta was remarkable at keeping both their spirits up, at treating the Games as no more than a challenging outing. Larkspur played along, but it was painfully clear that he wasn't fooling her – or himself, for that matter. Their first night in the arena, as he tucked her into his arms, covering her bright hair with a crude cap of moss and bark, she said in a small voice: "Peeta, I want to go home. I want to kiss a boy and have a toasting."

He smiled down at her, his bark-painted face eerie in the moonlight. "I'm going to do everything I can to make that happen," he promised her.

Coming from the boy who'd guarded and fed her and practically made her invisible, it gave even resigned little Larkspur a breath of hope. "Thank you," she whispered. She nestled her head under his chin and promptly went to sleep. Peeta closed his eyes too and, within seconds, his meticulous bark-paint was streaked with tears.

Everyone knew why, of course. Peeta wanted to go home just as badly as Larkspur did. He was, allegedly, in love with some girl from Twelve, a girl he'd said he wanted to win for, but he couldn't save both himself _and_ Larkspur. He would clearly never hurt Larkspur himself, so either he'd have to watch her die or sacrifice himself for her and never see his girl again – or, likeliest of all, both he and Larkspur would end up on a Career's blade.

Their third day in the arena, they struck up an alliance with Rue, the dark, birdlike girl from Eleven. Larkspur had befriended her in training, it appeared – they were of an age, Larkspur being thirteen and Rue a highly resourceful twelve – and she eagerly agreed to serve as their lookout in exchange for a little of Peeta's camouflage. Rue was a remarkable climber: she could dart up the scrubby pines like a squirrel and even scale the lower rock faces of the mountains. She brought back eagle eggs and edible mosses and taught Peeta and Larkspur the simple snares she'd perfected.

Rue was also, thanks to her slight build and quick, subtle movements, a reasonably successful thief. She had already mastered the art of skimming from the fullest pot – that is, pilfering from the Career's abundant supply stores. In just three days she'd managed to steal an assortment of gloves and scarves, a parcel of crackers and dried meat, and most impressively, two utility knives. She split all her takings with Peeta and Larkspur without hesitation, even giving them one of the knives.

On the fourth evening of the Games, Rue announced gleefully that the Career pack was roasting an elk, and she was going to their campsite to steal a haunch of meat to share. Larkspur begged her not to go; Rue was fleet and stealthy, but she'd never stolen quite so boldly from the Careers before, and a feast like this was clearly intended to draw out the hungriest tributes. Rue told them it was Glimmer, the blonde girl from One, on watch; she was strong and carried a bow, but she wasn't particularly clever or even a very good shot. Just the same, I had a bad feeling – the feeling you have during any Games when the members of an alliance split up and you know one or more of them will be dead before they meet again.

The other three Careers were dozing in their sleeping bags when Glimmer, perched on a log beside their roasted kill, heard the rustle overhead. With her finely-honed instincts, she swiftly raised her bow and shot an arrow into the tree cover. A soft thud resulted.

The dark girl from Two sat up. "What was that?" she asked.

"Another damn eagle, I think," Glimmer replied, getting up to investigate.

If it had been an eagle, she'd have missed.

She went over to the source of the sound and grinned wolfishly down at little Rue, who lay at the outermost edge of their camp, still blinking but clearly broken from her fall, with an arrow lodged in her throat. "I think it's our thief," Glimmer called back. "Clove, you want the honors?"

Rue reached up with one shaky hand and bravely tugged the arrow out of her throat. The cannon fired.

The dark girl, Clove, came over and frowned down at Rue's broken body. "Why'd they give her a seven?" she puzzled.

Glimmer shook her head. Her thick blonde braid was dirty but still lusher than any girl's in Twelve. "You want anything of hers?" she asked Clove. "Or should we just throw her out?"

The Career girls rummaged through Rue's garments, and, turning up nothing of value, finally tossed her body out of the circle of firelight. They returned to their camp, Clove to her sleeping bag and Glimmer to Cato, the brutish boy from Two who'd observed most of the proceedings with mild amusement, propped up on an elbow.

"To the victor go the spoils," Glimmer smirked as she slid into the sleeping bag beside him. He smirked back, a hot, bestial look in his eyes. I knew where this was going and was grateful Prim had already gone to bed. After a great deal of fumbling and tugging, Cato had Glimmer underneath him and was bouncing his body against hers, making satisfied grunts.

Clove gave a mildly disgusted scoff and flopped over in her sleeping bag.

Rue's face appeared in the sky, and Larkspur cried herself to sleep in Peeta's arms.

The next morning, three of the Careers woke to violent abdominal cramps and a cannon shot. Glimmer was dead, her beautiful face contorted with pain. It appeared they had all consumed some kind of poison, and she had suffered the worst effects. Cato, repulsed, dragged her body out of the sleeping bag and flung it as far away as he could. Clearly, his lust of the night before did not extend to sentiment for the girl he'd coupled with.

Peeta and Larkspur, both lean and pale from their small, inadequate meals, tried the snares Rue had taught them; beginner's luck was with them and they caught a thin rabbit within an hour. Peeta skinned and gutted it – Larkspur couldn't bear the thought – and roasted it with a sprinkle of their precious spices. Peeta warned Larkspur about eating too much too soon, but he quickly caved before the stark hunger in her eyes. She gratefully ate her half of the rabbit as well as a good portion of his, her eyes wet with gratitude.

"We'll catch another," Peeta assured her, but his smile wavered with fear and uncertainty.

Their bellies filled – or, at least, not longer quite empty – they reset their snare and had walked no more than twenty paces when they heard a snap, a whoosh, and a whimper. There was every indication that their snare had caught something far beyond their abilities to contain, and the Gamemakers must have been playing for suspense and a bloodbath, because the audience didn't see what had happened until Peeta and Larkspur did.

It was not their snare that had been triggered. Peeta and Larkspur moved cautiously toward the sound to find a girl – a pale, red-haired girl; the silent, foxlike tribute from Five – caught in a net, suspended a few feet off the ground. There was something surreal about the scene, as though she'd been fished from a lake. Surreal – and foreboding.

"We have to help her!" Larkspur cried.

"Please…" the red-haired girl begged.

The feeling of foreboding intensified. Peeta must have felt it too because he hesitated for a moment before taking off his knapsack, pulling out the knife Rue had given him, and going to the trapped girl.

"Thank you," she whispered as he carefully sawed away at the ropes.

He had very nearly cut her free when Larkspur shrieked, "Peeta, look out!" He whirled about to see Marvel, the dark Career boy from One, hurling a spear from ten yards away. Peeta dodged the spear, dropping Rue's knife, and charged the boy.

Peeta was no killer – he hadn't even fought with another tribute yet – but he knew there were two vulnerable girls to protect, and he had no weapon but his body. He wrestled Marvel down – the Career was strong but whipcord-lean – and snapped his neck, then turned back to see Larkspur on her knees, Marvel's spear protruding from her stomach.

On our battered sofa in Twelve, Prim screamed and burst into tears.

Peeta ran to Larkspur and tugged the spear out, but death was coming, rapid and inevitable as the blood soaking the front of her jacket. The red-haired girl wriggled out of the remains of the net and tried to help, but Peeta shoved her away, screaming like a madman. She disappeared into the woods like the fox she resembled, and Peeta slumped to his knees on the snowy ground, cradling Larkspur against him, his right hand pressing her stomach in a feeble attempt to staunch the blood flow.

Tears of pain and sorrow spilled down Larkspur's dirty, pale cheeks as she gazed up at Peeta. "I j-just wanted to kiss a boy and have a toasting," she whimpered, her breath a rasp.

"I can help you with part of that," he murmured. He was crying too. Larkspur stared up at him, her breath shaky and eyes uncomprehending.

As a breathless Panem looked on, Peeta raised Larkspur's chin with a blood-slick hand and pressed his lips to hers. It was a real kiss, not passionate, but not a timid peck either. Huddled in my arms on the sofa, Prim's sobs were broken by a gasp of awe. My own eyes burned.

"That was my first kiss," Peeta choked out, stroking Larkspur's tear-stained cheek with a bloody fingertip. "I hope it was okay."

It was a lie, of course. A boy like Peeta – popular, good-looking, athletic – has had his first kiss by the time he's Larkspur's age. But it might have been the kindest lie I'd ever heard. I rubbed at the wetness on my cheeks.

Larkspur's eyes grew wide with wonder, even through her pain. "Who were you saving it for?" she whispered.

Peeta leaned down to bring his lips near her ear. Whatever he said made her grasp the front of his jacket fiercely. "You have to be the one, Peeta," she said, shaking him a little. "You _have_ to go home. Go home…a-and love her…"

Her grip on his jacket fell slack. The cannon fired.

Peeta sobbed and pulled Larkspur's body tightly to him, tucking her lifeless face against his neck and rocking her. It was clear he would have cried himself hoarse – sick, even – but he remembered Larkspur's other request and knew the hovercraft would be coming soon. He laid her body gently on the ground and bathed the dirt, blood, and tears from her face with his shirttail, damped with snow.

I still think the only reason the Capitol showed what Peeta did was because it was so confusing to anyone outside of Twelve. He built a tiny fire, then from his knapsack he took the package of crackers Rue had stolen from the Career's campsite the night before she died. He held two crackers over the flame till their pale edges began to darken, then he blew on them a little, to cool, and placed one in each of Larkspur's hands. "For your new home," he said softly, kneeling down to kiss her forehead.

He kicked snow and earth over the fire, closed his knapsack, and retrieved Rue's knife from where he'd dropped it below the net. After a moment's thought, he reluctantly picked up the spear as well.

People forget that Peeta only had the spear to kill the white bear because he took it from Larkspur's body.

He wiped the blade clean on his shirttail, then trudged away into the woods.

And now that tribute – the gentle baker's son who gave a dying thirteen-year-old girl her first kiss and a farewell toasting – hugs my little sister, his strong arms tight across her back. He saved her life today with his rich gifts of food and coal and clothing, and tonight he's saved her livelihood – her beloved goat and kids – with the costliest feed in the district. A few rotting vegetables would have sufficed.

I hear a muffled sob and realize it came from me. I drag a hand across my eyes and sniff hard, blinking back tears; Mom's hand brushes my arm and I give her a weak smile.

Peeta holds Prim back a little, his hands at her waist. "The coat looks beautiful on you," he says, smiling.

Prim's cheeks glitter with tears of joy and gratitude. I never knew tears could be so sweet. "It's perfect," she whispers.

"Did you check all the pockets?" he asks. His blue eyes are dancing. For a moment he looks exactly like his father when he gave Prim the boots.

Prim frowns, puzzled. "What…oh, yes, there was a cap in this one!" She reaches into one hip pocket and takes out a pretty yellow stocking cap, embroidered all over with red rosebuds. Clearly, another gift from Peeta. She must have found it this afternoon; I hadn't even seen it yet.

She pulls it on over her blonde braids, grinning, and reaches into the other pocket. "And I keep my mittens in – _oh!_" She gives a squeak of surprise and pulls out a small paper bag that clearly hadn't been there a moment before.

I know this game, though Prim might not remember it. Dad used to play it: sneaking a treat under your nose and waiting for you to find it. Little – but precious – things, like a shiny pebble or a new hair ribbon or, on very special occasions, a colorful piece of candy. I'm truly impressed by Peeta's sleight of hand; he would have done it when he held Prim by the waist, and I hadn't noticed a thing.

Prim opens the little bag and peers inside with a squeal of delight. "Peppermints!" she cries. She tips the bag to dispense four of the round red-and-white swirled candies and passes one to each of us before taking the last for herself.

Peeta obligingly pops the peppermint into his mouth, smiling at Prim's response to both the surprise and the gift itself, and I'm struck by the realization of what a wonderful father he would be. A wealthy, kind, pleasant-enough-looking young man; he's bound to marry soon. I wonder if I'll raise his children.

Prim looks up at him, suddenly bashful. "Vick Hawthorne says you have a pony and cart," she says.

Guilt gnaws at my stomach. Peeta sent that enormous basket of food, carefully chosen and clearly intended for our family, and I gave half of it to the Hawthornes without batting an eye.

"I do," Peeta answers her solemnly. "But during the winter I drive a sleigh." Prim gapes as she tries to envision this, and Peeta grins back at her. I realize I know what he's going to say next, and I wonder how much of this he planned ahead of time. "Would you like to go for a ride?" he offers.

Prim's eyes go wide as saucers. "_Can_ I?" she breathes.

"Well, that's really up to Katniss," he says. "We're on her time now."

He looks at me and the words fall out. "We gave the Hawthornes some of the food," I blurt. "Um…half of it, actually. Was that okay?"

Peeta's expression is unreadable. I wonder if I've ruined everything, if I've broken the deal by sharing the food with people outside my family. "Did you have all you wanted?" he asks me.

"Yes–"

"And you, Prim?" he asks her.

"Oh, more than enough!" she says. Sweet, good Prim. It's not a lie, but it's still more convincing coming from her. "It was all so good!"

"Then of course it's okay." Peeta's smile returns and I breathe a sigh of relief. Standing beside me, I think Mom does too. "Do you mind then, Katniss?" he asks.

In my concern over the food, I've already forgotten the question. "If I take Prim for a quick sleigh ride," he adds.

"No. Please," I tell him, a little woodenly. I don't believe anyone's ever asked my permission in anything, let alone to do something nice for my sister. "Take as long as you like."

He smiles in reply. I wonder if he mistook my strange tone for reluctance. "Shall we go, then?" he asks Prim, offering his arm.

She links her arm through his. "Yes, please!"

They walk out, a pretty pair of fair-haired Merchant children: Prim in her beautiful cranberry coat, cheery new cap, and fine boots; Peeta in his radiant white bearskin. They'd make a splash in town, but something tells me they're not leaving the Seam. Something tells me Vick Hawthorne will have more tales to tell after this evening.

The door closes behind them and Mom turns to me. "Katniss, this is…difficult for me to say," she begins.

"Then maybe you shouldn't," I say. I realize that, since Peeta's visit last night, she and I haven't really been alone together. There were moments – in the bath, in her room – but Prim was always nearby. I'm not sure I want to hear whatever it is Mom couldn't say with Prim around.

When she does speak, it's not at all what I expected. "Please don't think that I don't know – or appreciate – all you've done to keep our family alive," she whispers.

"I don't," I lie weakly.

"No, you do – and you're right," she says, startling me. "Right to blame me. After…your dad…I was ill. If I'd had medicine – the herbs we grow now – maybe I could've treated myself. Love is…cruel sometimes." She looks abruptly older, hollow, when she says that. I'm glad love is not a complication I'll have to worry about.

"This bargain…" She frowns delicately. "I don't want to lose you, sweetheart. If it had been up to me, I'd have turned him down; you know that. But again – as usual – you've saved our lives."

I can't tell if this is praise or not. My face feels hot and uncomfortable. "We…needed the food," I say feebly.

"Yes, we needed the food," she agrees. "And the coal, and grain for Lady. Peeta's been…incredibly generous."

I hear what she's not saying. All we needed was a little bread and meat and maybe a vegetable or two; Peeta gave us all of that and cake and custard besides, to say nothing of restocking our pantry with oats and flour, honey and tea. We were cold, so he gave us both coal and blankets, when either one would have sufficed. The very best feed for Lady, and the finest clothes for Prim.

"Peeta's special, Katniss," Mom says quietly. "I didn't know about the bread, but it doesn't surprise me. I believe he'll treat you well, better than he's treated us, even."

I doubt that very much, but it's not worth the argument. "Maybe," I hedge. "I don't think he'll…hurt me, if you're worried about that."

Her lips tighten. The answer is yes, then. For all her compliments toward him, she _is _afraid of that – making me suddenly wonder if I should be too. I bite back the quaver in my voice. "Mom, you don't think –"

"When you made this bargain, you said you'd do anything for him," she interrupts, her voice harsh but shaky. She doesn't quite meet my eyes. "I know how you feel about owing, about paying people back, but…Peeta might not see it that way. Please…don't feel you have to give him anything he doesn't ask for."

I don't have a great imagination, but it doesn't take one to realize where she's going with this. My cheeks burn. "Like what, Mom?" I challenge, daring her to say it. I half wish Peeta was here for this conversation. The conditions of my stay with him have escalated into a riddle – an unsavory one. And of all people, Mom should know better; she was the one who discussed it with him.

Her eyes shift to meet mine, and for a moment I see pain and regret and the fierce maternal love I've ached for these five hungry years. And for that moment I both love and hate her, more strongly than I ever have before. I want to hug her and shake her, scream at her and cry in her arms. I want her to tell me that I'm saving their lives with this bargain, and I want her to tell me she's found another way so I don't have to go. I want her to acknowledge me as a woman and comfort me as a child.

Of course, we do none of this. She blinks and the maelstrom of emotion fades from her eyes. The moment passes. "Did you pack oil for your bow?" she asks me. "You've been so diligent about it this winter; I know you wouldn't want to forget."

"No," I admit. She goes to the kitchen to fetch my oil jar and cloth, and I occupy myself with needlessly unpacking and repacking my foraging bag to find the optimal spot for the oil. We're both good at this, going through the motions to pass the time, to evade conversation and each other's eyes. We manage to exchange little more than a "thank you" in the ten minutes before Prim returns.

Prim and Peeta tumble through the front door in a flurry of pink cheeks, frosty air, and sheer delight. Without even pausing to kick the snow from her boots, Prim bounds over to hug me soundly. "Oh, Katniss, you really are the luckiest girl in the district!" she squeals. Her breath is cool and minty in my face. "The pony – he's called Rye – is so sweet and gentle! I was a little scared because he's so _big_, but Peeta let me feed him a piece of apple and a sugar cube and he took them right out of my hand!" She wiggles her mittened palm to demonstrate, grinning. "And the sleigh is _so_ beautiful!" she gushes. "It's like a wagon, only it's curved and green and there's even –"

She looks over at Peeta guiltily; he raises a brow at her – it feels like a light-hearted warning – and she redirects her next remark. "We drove past the Hawthornes' and Vick and Rory came out to see us and say thanks for the food. Oh, and Vick said something about Gale owing him now?" she wonders aloud.

I force a chuckle but don't reply. My decision to share our food with the Hawthornes forced Peeta into an awkward position. Of course he would take Prim there, let her show off for Vick and Rory. The Hawthornes, like most Seam folk, keep to themselves, neither seeking nor spreading gossip, but Vick – and maybe Rory too, if he was really curious – wouldn't have been able to resist. Not with a sleigh and a pony and a fur-cloaked Victor outside their house. They would have peppered Peeta with questions about our bargain. I wonder, in spite of myself, what he told them.

Peeta draws a thick, sealed envelope from under his coat and gives it to Mom. "If anyone gives you trouble after Katniss leaves, bring this to the nearest Peacekeeper," he tells her. "Even if it's a Peacekeeper who's causing the trouble, this should quickly settle the issue. I spent most of the morning at the Justice Building and explained the particulars of our arrangement to Cray; he agrees that there shouldn't be any problems, but it's best to take precautions."

Good, kind Peeta spoke with Cray – about me? I feel a little sick at the thought. Of course, our Head Peacekeeper is no stranger to bargaining with desperate souls, but never would he have traded so generously. His idea of a fair deal is a few coins in payment for a night in his bed. More than a few starving girls – and women; wives and mothers, even – have voluntarily submitted to his lust to put food on their tables. It's become almost a rite of passage in the Seam, trading your innocence to feed your family.

It's yet another horror Peeta has spared me – spared us all, really – and yet another thing I owe him for.

Mom turns the envelope in her hands. It's unaddressed, unmarked in any way. "What is this?" she asks.

"Katniss's residency documents," he replies. And, judging by the thickness of the envelope, a lot of money besides. "Her designated dwelling has been changed to my Victor's Residence."

I wonder how much that must have cost him. To do it officially – to have a piece of paper endorsed at the Justice Building –

"You'll find you have accounts with every Merchant in the district," he goes on. "If you're concerned about being cheated, my father and Marko are authorized to deal on your behalf." He pauses, smiling slightly. "Marko's brighter than he looks," he assures us. "He's probably a better trader because of it. People tend to underestimate him."

Mom nods and, to my surprise, returns his smile. "Thank you," she says. "It's been…some time since last I traded in town. I'd be grateful of the assistance."

"I've also arranged for a cash fund," Peeta says. "There will, no doubt, be things you need that I haven't thought of."

I doubt that very much.

"The safest way to manage it was through my father," he adds. His tone is careful, as though bracing for argument.

Mom looks at him strangely. "We're to go to him if we need anything?"

Peeta shakes his head. "No – that is: you _can_, but there should be no need for it. Dad's planning to bring you fresh bread at least every other day," he explains, "so you'll see him often enough. If you need anything – food, money, anything at all – simply ask him then."

Somewhere at the back of my mind, it occurs to me that these are the sort of arrangements I thought Mom and the baker would have discussed this morning. "That sounds…very fine," Mom says. I'm astonished at her calm. Beside me, Prim is practically dancing. "But won't that be out of his way?"

Peeta grins. "Not in the least."

We all recall it then, and the extravagance of the bargain is almost ridiculous. _You will have a new house_, he'd promised. To which kind, guileless Marko had added, _We're gonna be neighbors, you know._

"I'm sorry I couldn't get you into the new house tonight," Peeta says, and the regret in his voice says that he tried. Probably very hard. Something warm and skittish flutters in my stomach. I blame the third helping of ginger cake.

"I've made arrangements for you to visit Monday after Prim gets out of school," he tells Mom. "Go to the bakery and my father will take you over." He smiles, as at a hidden joke. "It's a short walk."

"Is it on the square?" Prim bursts out, bubbling with excitement. I start to shush her when I realize it must be, or close to, for Marko to consider them neighbors. The square is surrounded by shops and the merchants live above, but every now and again a family will die out and a shop will stand empty. Renting out the rooms above an empty shop would probably be cheaper for Peeta – not that he appears to be concerned with that – and the Justice Building certainly wouldn't turn up its nose at any income from a previously vacant property.

Peeta gives her a brilliant smile. "Maybe," he teases. "If the place is to your liking –" this is to both Mom and Prim – "you need only say so. My father has all the necessary documents in hand, and you can move in immediately. If you don't like the house, tell Dad – and be honest," he insists. "He'll send word to me and we can make other arrangements."

He pauses for a moment, and I realize yet again how well he's managed this. Not only is he giving Mom and Prim a home and food and money to spend, but he's arranged for someone to look after them, to ensure they have everything they could possibly need and aren't being cheated out of their newfound wealth. I don't think Mom's bought anything – purchased outright, without trading for herbal preparations or some kind of medical treatment – since before Dad died. And everyone loves Prim, but that wouldn't stop them from charging her double simply because she's inclined to believe people are honest and would pay what they asked without a second thought. No one would cheat the baker or his son.

In a very real way, Peeta's compensating for my absence in my family's lives – and going one better. Since Dad died, I've been the protector and the provider. I brought home game and foraged foods and traded for everything else. Now that Mom and Prim are rich – or soon to be – they don't need roots and blackbirds and pine bark. They'll be buying their food from the grocer and the butcher and getting deliveries of fresh bread from the baker himself.

They don't need me anymore.

I feel, sharp as hunger pangs, the separation yawning wider and wider between my family and me. _Their_ house, if it's to their liking. I'm neither a part of that decision nor that future. I knew this, agreed to it from the very beginning, but still I'm suddenly finding it hard to breathe. Prim is going to grow up without me; without me to feed and clothe and look out for her. She'll have someone to do those things – better than I ever could – but it won't be me…

"I am…not in town often," Peeta says awkwardly. "I have in my employment two Avoxes who make regular trips for supplies."

Mom makes a startled sound – I don't understand why or what exactly he's talking about – and he hastens to reassure her, "Please believe me, Mrs. Everdeen, when I say their life is far more pleasant with me than in the Capitol. They served in my suite at the Training Center and were both willing and eager to accompany me to my Victor's Residence."

I wonder if he made any sort of bargain with them. If their families have fine new homes in some other distant district.

"Both are…_distinctive_ in appearance," he adds with a small smile, "and have authority to transact on my behalf. If you need anything from me directly – or need to speak with me for any reason – simply let them know."

"Can we write to Katniss?" Prim asks hopefully. "Can we give them letters for her?"

I hadn't thought of this, and judging by the expression on his face, Peeta hadn't either. For a split second I'm terrified that he'll say no.

"Of course you can," he tells her. "I'm sorry I didn't think to suggest it myself. One or the other will be in town at least once a week, but if you miss them, simply leave your letter with my dad and he'll pass it along on their next visit."

"Oh, good," Prim says, visibly relieved. "Thank you."

With that, there appears nothing more to be said.

"Katniss, will you come with me?" Peeta asks. His voice shakes a little.

It's the first time he's addressed me – even looked at me – since he asked my permission on the sleigh ride, and I realize he's not just giving me a direction. He's giving me a chance to change my mind. He's just told my family that they'll have anything and everything they want for the rest of their lives, and now he's telling me that I can still back out of my part of the bargain.

It should be reassuring but instead I'm angry. Peeta could never do another thing for my family and I would still owe him for the rest of my life. He could break my neck and leave my body in the woods, and it wouldn't cancel out the immense goodness of what he's done in just one day. How can he imagine that I could simply walk away from that kind of debt?

"Yes," I tell him, and wonder at the quaver in my own voice.

Prim launches herself into my arms. She's begun to cry again, but her sweet blue eyes are shining and happy through her tears. "It's your turn for good things, Katniss," she says, hugging me tightly. "You've done so much for me and Mom. It's going to be so good; you'll see."

I wonder what sort of promises she wheedled out of Peeta in the sleigh. "Take care of yourself, little duck," I whisper back. She presses a wet kiss to my cheek, and I feel a snout nudge the back of my leg, just above the knee.

I turn to see Lady blinking up at me. Curious at the commotion, she's left the kitchen to investigate – and was, no doubt, more disgruntled to see me hugging _her_ person than to have been left out of the activity. I crouch down to bring my face level with hers. "Goodbye, little mama," I tell her, ruffling her soft ears, and lean a little closer to whisper, "Have triplets." Three kids are not an impossibility, not even uncommon, but Lady's produced two these past two years for us, and we have no reason to expect more from this pregnancy. She might only have one.

One kid automatically goes back to the Goat Man in payment for the stud service – for the pregnancy, the kidding that keeps her in milk. He'll take a buck if both kids are male but prefers a doe. The first year we were lucky and got two females; the Goat Man eagerly took one and I sold the other at the Hob as a milk goat for a very tidy sum. The second year we got one of each; the Goat Man took the doe, leaving us to sell the buck. Bucks are obstinate; they can pull carts and father more kids, but their practical use ends there. Our buck ended up going to Rooba, the butcher, for meat; he fetched a good price, and it seemed a way to pay Rooba back for effectively snatching Lady from under her nose two years before.

The end result – Lady producing milk and thereby income for us – is the same, no matter the fate of the kids, but I know it breaks Prim's heart to watch Lady's belly eagerly, to help her deliver those kids with all the skill of a seasoned midwife, and then watch one go straight from his mother to the butcher. If Lady had three kids – ideally, two does and a buck – Prim could sell one doe in town and use some of the profits to bribe the Goat Man to take the buck for his herd, then she could keep the second doe as another milk goat. We've discussed it a few times since Lady's last kidding: if she had two kids, the Goat Man would take one and we couldn't afford to keep the other for ourselves, but if she had three – three does or even two does and a buck – we might be able to squeeze enough profit from the one the Goat Man didn't take to afford to keep the third.

I get to my feet again and hug my mother. She doesn't cry, of course, only murmurs, "Thank you, Katniss," as she kisses my cheek. Her lips are as light as a butterfly wing – as a shadow – against my skin, but still I cherish it. My last kiss from Mom before today was an hurried peck on the cheek the day Dad died. _Go on; you'll be late for school – and keep your hood up!_ After that, I became the mother.

I catch her shoulders as I move back and look into her eyes, waiting for her to say whatever it was she wanted to say earlier and didn't. Something tells me it was desperately important, that I shouldn't – daren't – leave this house without it.

Instead, she takes my face in her hands, a gesture so tender and maternal that I very nearly _do_ cry. "So beautiful," she says softly, smoothing her thumbs over my prominent cheekbones. I wonder if she's lapsed into madness again and is talking about herself. The hearty food; the strong, spiced coffee; the sheer well-being that seems to accompany every Mellark visitor to our house – it's brought color to her cheeks, a spark of life to her eyes. Even her hair seems brighter, more golden, by the light of Marko's cheery coal fires.

The fragile ghost that has haunted this house since my father's death is already turning back into the apothecary's daughter: a vibrant, beautiful woman of cream and honey and wild roses, with keen eyes and clever hands. A month or two of rich Merchant food and she'll even have the curves I vaguely remember; she'll have to alter her pretty dresses yet again. I wonder how she'll look when – _if_ – I return. I wonder what Prim will look like.

For all his generosity, Peeta's made no promises of bringing me back, even for the Reaping. The loss of Prim – the realization that I won't see her again, not for a long time or perhaps not _ever _– twists at my heart, and I pull away from Mom for a last look at my sister, only to laugh, in spite of myself. Prim is smiling through her tears and holding Buttercup – that ugly, ornery, singularly adored cat – for his farewell pat. "No hissing," I warn him as I carefully extend a hand.

Apparently the chicken skin won me a full day's reprieve. Buttercup merely blinks at me – sleepy and downright content – as I stroke his coat. No yowls, no hisses, not even a meow of inquiry for the tidbit I must be hiding.

"You'll be back," Prim whispers. "Don't be scared, Katniss."

"I love you," I whisper back, leaning across Buttercup to kiss Prim's forehead. The urge to cry is almost overwhelming, but I fight it tooth and nail. I won't cry in front of Peeta. He already thinks I could change my mind, back out of the bargain. If he sees my resolve weakening…He can't. I can't jeopardize Prim and Mom's rosy future, and I can't owe him more than I already do.

I pick up my foraging bag and the cloth wrapping my bow and arrows and turn to Peeta, relieved that, despite the burning in my eyes, my cheeks are dry. "Let's go," I say bluntly, with a courage only partly feigned.

He smiles at me, a sympathetic smile, but there's something strangely bright in his eyes. Something like excitement –no, elation. As though he's about to see or do something wonderful. "Thank you, Mrs. Everdeen, Prim," he says, his eyes shifting to them, and the elation is in his voice too. "I'll look after her like she was –" He breaks off, blushing slightly. "I'll take care of her," he promises.

I frown. We all know what he was about to say. _I'll look after her like she was my own._ It's an odd phrase for a sixteen-year-old boy to use – it's the sort of thing parents say when they're called to look after another's children for a time – but certainly not worth blushing over.

I bid Mom and Prim one last goodbye. Peeta opens the door for me, though I might easily have managed it myself, burdened far heavier than I am with my small store of possessions. I walk out into the winter night and gasp at the sight before me.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Chapter 5 is coming in MINUTES! (It's technically Chapter 4b and meant to be posted simultaneously, but I'm running a little behind and figured I'd post this so my East Coast friends could get a head start. :D)


	5. Frost and Starlight

**Chapter 5: Frost and Starlight**

_When they had gone a great part of the way, the White Bear said: "Are you afraid?"  
_"_No, that I am not," said she.  
_"_Keep tight hold of my fur, and then there is no danger," said he.  
And thus she rode far, far away…  
_~_East of the Sun & West of the Moon (Østenfor sol og vestenfor mane),  
_by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe, edited by Andrew Lang

I can't blame Vick for imagining Father Christmas. I've heard of sleighs, of course, but never seen one. Prim was right: it's exactly like a curved wagon on runners, only far, far more beautiful, with its glossy paint and gilded edges and sleek, sinuous contours. At the front, shielded by the S-curve of the body of the sleigh, is a cushioned bench seat, as deep and plush as the armchairs at Madge's house and just wide enough for two passengers. Behind the seat is a rear compartment filled with parcels.

Prim said the sleigh was green, but by the feeble light from the surrounding Seam houses and the muted glow of the sleigh's two driving lanterns, it looks almost black. Decorating its sides are clusters of white flowers, painted with an herbalist's precision and an artist's grace. White flowers with a dot of dark red at the bases of their three perfect petals. Katniss flowers.

I feel a prickly rush of heat on my neck. I'm aware that the sleigh didn't just come like this. Someone – Peeta, obviously – painted the flowers on it and clearly took pains to make them both beautiful and accurate. I can't begin to guess why, but I know they're meant for me.

I don't want to think about it, don't want Peeta to see I've noticed, and I quickly shift my attention to the head of the sleigh, where a little horse – as like the grand chariot horses of the Tribute Parade as a duck is like an eagle – waits in a harness covered with tiny bells. Rye, Prim had called him. I step closer, close enough to touch the pony if I dared. He's short – as little as I am, I could comfortably rest my chin on his back – and stocky, with a shaggy brown coat. His strong legs are white to the knees, as though he's wearing stockings – Prim must have loved that – and his mane and tail are nearly as pale blonde as Marko's curls. His long face is white too, the smooth blaze stretching up to his forehead and cresting over his large, liquid eyes. Not unlike a deer's eyes, really. I wonder how many households a fat pony would feed.

I'm flooded with shame at the thought. After five years of living off whatever I could forage, catch, or shoot – and now this brutal winter – it's almost impossible to look at any creature of fur and flesh and blood and not think of meat. Horse meat is among the most expensive at the butcher's, less than beef but more than chicken. Despite the lean winter, Rye has clearly been well-fed.

I'm astonished that none of our starving neighbors made attempts to steal the unattended pony from the street and slaughter him for food. All forms of stealing are punishable by death in Twelve, but more than a few this winter are hungry enough to chance it. Then again, this pony belongs to a Victor. Maybe they left him alone out of respect for Peeta, whose victory in the Games won our district monthly, if insufficient, Parcel Days. Or maybe the penalty for taking a Victor's property is crueler than death.

Peeta comes alongside me, looming grand and bearlike in his heavy white fur, and runs a gloved hand along the pony's strong neck. Rye tosses his head a little at the touch and Peeta chuckles; he takes the pony's cheeks in his big hands and leans in to rest his forehead against Rye's. "Ready to go home, boy?" Peeta murmurs. Rye whuffles in response and butts his head against Peeta, who laughs. "No, no more till we get home!"

Peeta looks over at me, smiling. "He loves apples, but he's eaten all I brought," he explains.

I force a tight smile and quickly lower my eyes, further shamed by Peeta's clear affection for the pony. I would never go after Rye as food, never even give it a serious moment's thought, but my raw hunger – my instinct for meat and the kill – mortifies me just the same.

Rye gives another whuffle, this one impatient, and I glance up to see him lipping at Peeta's bearskin, near his hip. Peeta laughs again and ducks away, coming back to me. "Sugar cubes, however are another story," he whispers confidentially. "I never know when he'll have a stubborn moment, so I need to be prepared."

I think of sugar cubes and apples and Prim. Suddenly, I wish that she could be the one going with Peeta. Prim, with her bright gold braids and sweet Merchant face and that dream of a new coat. _She_ belongs in this sleigh; not me, a dark feral thing who sees a handsome pony and thinks first of meat. Prim would give up her last bite of food if she thought Rye wanted it. She'd spend hours braiding ribbons into his mane.

Peeta holds out a hand, and I realize he's asking for my things. I reluctantly hand over my foraging bag and the wrapped bow and arrows; he takes both with almost ridiculous care. He tucks the foraging bag in amongst the parcels in the rear compartment, hesitates for a moment, then hands me back the bow. "Our part of the woods is safe enough, but I'd feel better if you kept this," he admits with a grin.

So he _does_ know. I'd made some small effort to disguise the shape of the bow and sheath of arrows with the wrapping cloth, but my hunting is probably the worst-kept secret in the district. In any case, he doesn't seem angry, and it's spared us an awkward conversation down the road.

Peeta takes a brass bucket from the floor of the sleigh and gestures for me to get in. I step up and slide carefully onto the plush seat, fighting the urge to tug off my glove and touch the upholstery with my bare hand. It's a deep brown or red and looks to be velvet. There's a blanket on the floor near my feet, and Peeta reaches across me to bundle it loosely it around my ankles – for warmth, I suppose – then he takes a large pair of tongs from the edge of the bucket and uses them to lift out a brick, which he tucks into the nest of blanket surrounding my ankles. A hot brick, I realize, to keep my feet warm. I've heard of such a practice, but most of us who suffer the cold in the coal-dusted Seam own little that would be fire-resistant enough to heat in such a fashion.

To my surprise, Peeta dips the tongs into the bucket again and lifts out a second brick, then a third and a fourth, tucking them one at a time into the bundled blanket and surrounding my feet and ankles with glorious warmth. A bucket of hot bricks. He clearly planned this in advance, but he can't have gone home since last night. I wonder if he warmed the bricks in the bakery ovens.

I watch his face as he works and realize, with a quiet gasp, that he's beautiful. His ash-blond hair is more silver than gold in the blue-white reflection of the moon on snow, his fair skin ivory and flawless. Even his eyelashes – I've never been close enough before now to notice how long and pale they are – seem like supple threads of ice, at once colorless and iridescent. He's like a strange, stunning creature spun from frost and starlight.

How could I have thought him ordinary, just a teenager like me? A teenage boy – especially a robust, well-fed Merchant boy – invariably has a spotty complexion, peppered with tufts of newly sprouted facial hair. Peeta's skin is smooth and even-toned, his chin hairless and unshadowed by stubble. He doesn't even have sideburns.

I wonder if they did something to him at the Capitol to make him look so perfect. When he came onstage for the recap with Caesar, he looked positively radiant - except for his haunted eyes. No one who had lived through the Games – losing every ally in the process, including their district partner, plus half of their right leg – could look quite so strong and healthy – and, yes, attractive – a matter of days after being taken out of the arena. At least, not without drastic cosmetic measures.

Despite my leisurely bath, Mom's scented soap and powder and pretty Merchant clothes, I feel grimy beside him. I smell acrid sweat and goat's dung and the blood of a kill on me. I'm reminded of my dream, of devouring blackbirds raw in front of the white bear, of wiping the blood from my hands in the snow before climbing onto his back. In the dream I'd been cold and filthy and crippled by hunger; today I'm clean and well-fed and still my fingers feel sticky with blood and entrails inside my gloves. How can Peeta bear to be this close to me, let alone touch me?

"How's that?" His gentle voice breaks into my thoughts. His breath is sweet and smells of peppermints.

I can barely move my feet for all the bundling around my ankles, not that I'd want to. "It's good," I answer. "Nice and warm."

Peeta smiles and reaches across me for a second blanket, which he drapes over my lap and begins wrapping around the lower half of my body, further cocooning me in warmth. He's careful not to touch me excessively and doesn't touch my hips or thighs at all; he tucks the top edges of the blanket behind my waist and the rest behind my knees, or just above.

I suddenly recall that I need to thank him before we leave. Right now, in fact, before I do something stupid to incur yet another round of debt. I try vainly to force the words between my lips. After all, it's not like I can kiss him and run away again.

I blush at the memory, glad that Peeta isn't watching my face. To run away now, I'd have to untangle myself from this cozy bundle of wool and hot bricks and somehow manage to hurdle over him – and once I'm at his house, who knows? Maybe he'll shackle me to the stove.

"You remembered everything," I blurt. It's not quite a _thank you_, but it's the best I can manage. Peeta looks up at me curiously. "The eggs and flour," I tell him. "Prim's coat and boots. That expensive feed for Lady – you even remembered she was pregnant."

Peeta smiles but says nothing.

"I wasn't even talking to you," I say, a little desperately.

"I know," he answers. His gaze is steady, his voice soft and so kind. "Would you have been that frank about your needs if you'd thought I was paying attention?"

I look away, my cheeks hot. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't have said a single word.

"I should've come to you sooner," he says, and the change in his voice is startling. It's hard now, almost angry. "I had no idea things were that bad."

"Well, why would you?" I ask, frowning up at him. "You're not responsible for me or my family."

His smile returns, small but dazzling. "I am now," he says.

For some reason, he seems ridiculously happy at the prospect. It irks me, but not as much as it could. If Peeta is happy to buy Prim the prettiest coat and boots in the district, to give her peppermints and take her on a sleigh ride, who am I to complain?

He picks up the brass bucket and goes around to the other side of the sleigh. It's the first time I've really seen him walk since his return from the Games, and his limp, while subtle, is distinct in someone so fit and young. Like everyone in Panem, I remember the moment from the recap when Peeta tugged up his pant leg at Caesar's prompting to reveal the prosthesis – the false calf and foot replacing his own. Between the wolverine and the tourniquet, amputation had been inevitable. It's as well he was a Victor: he'll never wrestle again.

He gets into the sleigh beside me, pulling the bearskin around him as he settles on the seat. He places the bucket on the floor between us and I notice that he's only kept one brick for himself. I remember that he only has one real foot now.

He sets the last brick on the floor and uses his right foot – the prosthetic one – to nudge it under his left boot. There are no other blankets in sight, and I fight the urge to tug off one of mine and give it to him, along with one or more of the bricks. The bearskin is obviously heavy and warm, but it's a bitterly cold night. I suspect if Peeta wasn't sharing the sleigh tonight, he'd be wrapped in both of the blankets now tucked around me, with all the hot bricks to himself.

He picks up the reins but hesitates, his face set and somber. "The Hawthornes," he says quietly, not looking at me.

I had expected this, or something similar. "We're friends," I tell him honestly. "We look out for each other."

He frowns, somehow unsatisfied by this answer. "I should've asked before," he mutters, almost to himself. "Is there an understanding between you and Gale?"

He's looking at me now, watching my expression. I think of the pact Gale and I made last year to look after each other's family if one of us got Reaped. Could that be what Peeta's asking? He knows I split the hamper of food; does he think I provide for the Hawthornes as well as my own family?

I don't really want to tell him any of this and answer instead, "What do you mean?"

"Do you plan to marry him?" he asks. There's a strange note in his voice – an edge, almost. I wonder why it matters to him in the least.

"No, of course not," I reply. Gale wants a wife and kids but has never so much as suggested that I might supply one or the other. He knows I don't want to marry – him or anyone – and never want to have children. "Would I have agreed to come with you if I did?" I ask Peeta.

It's a rhetorical question. Of course I would've. I would've broken any promise. Given anything to feed Prim.

"Yes," Peeta says softly. "I think you would. I think you would do anything to help your sister."

He says it like an observation; not prying or judging, just a simple statement of fact. It angers me that he understands me so well already; it's as though I'm exposed somehow. "You don't know me," I snap. "Don't pretend like you do."

Peeta looks away but doesn't call to the pony, doesn't move or speak at all, and I know I've hurt him. How can I be so cruel to this gentle, generous boy? Chicken and sausages and bread and peppermints; blankets and coal and soft fleecy boots. Why can't I just keep my mouth shut and let him be kind?

"Yes," he whispers.

I look at him with a start; his eyes are focused on the reins in his gloved hands. "I burned the bread on purpose, so I could give it to you," he says, his voice husky and hushed. "I saw you under the apple tree when my mother went out to shout at you, and I wanted to help, to get food for you. So I pretended to be clumsy and knocked the bread into the fire." He pauses, drawing an uneven breath. "I knew she would hit me for it."

I've wondered this a dozen times before but never dared to believe it. For a moment I wonder if he's trying to hurt me back for my harsh words. He helped me – saved my life – knowing he'd be beaten for it.

Peeta was beaten because of me. No, not _because _of me – _for_ me. He willingly took a beating just to get me some bread. The thought knocks the breath from my body. Could he have known he was saving my life?

"I knew you were hungry," he goes on, looking up at me. I expect grief, anger, resentment in his eyes; instead, impossibly, there's tenderness – and an apology. "That things were…bad for your family," he says. "But I had no idea how –"

"Why should you?" I bristle.

Peeta winces as though I've struck him. My tone is sharp, but I can't help it. I'm like a wounded animal. Peeta's clearly trying to help – has only ever tried to help – but all I can do is snarl and snap at his outstretched hand.

"No reason, I guess," he admits. He makes an odd sound – a clucking of the tongue – at Rye and we set off, the pony's belled harness jingling cheerfully in the stark silence of the Seam.

It's a perfect winter night, still and clear and almost unbelievably cold. So cold my nostrils stick together when I inhale; so cold the stars above are almost blindingly bright. It's too cold to snow, but every now and again, a little puff of icy glitter dusts against my face.

Peeta skillfully maneuvers the sleigh, winding our way between houses till we reach the edge of the Meadow. We drive across the field, toward the very patch of fence that provides my crawl-space, then Peeta turns sharply and we cut straight north, paralleling the fence. _Well, of course._ Peeta might fit through the crawl-space, but not with a pony-drawn sleigh.

"How do you get past the fence?" I ask, forgetting in my curiosity to be hostile.

He glances at me and smiles. You'd never know from his expression how brusque I'd been to him only a few minutes ago. "Every fence has a gate," he replies. "Ours has two. The one I use is just a little north of the Meadow."

I knew this, I suppose; it had just never mattered before. I have a point of entry into the woods and certainly would never have concerned myself with official gates except to avoid them.

We approach it soon enough, in the middle of a seemingly endless stretch of chain-link fence: a wide barred gate with a sturdy hinge on one side and a brightly lit hut – a Peacekeeper outpost – on the other. Peeta slows Rye to a stop and reaches inside the bearskin for an envelope identical to the one he gave Mom earlier. The envelope containing my residency documents.

"What do those say?" I ask, interested in spite of myself.

"You can read them when we get home, if you want," he tells me. "Essentially: Katniss Everdeen has been hired as a companion to Peeta Mellark. Her compensation includes room and board at his Victor's Residence, and her wages are going directly to support her family."

Put that way, it sounds so simple and straightforward – leave it to Peeta to put our bargain into words even Peacekeepers can appreciate – though I can't help wondering what sort of work I'll be doing to earn riches and a life of comfort for my family. Whatever Peeta told my mother, these few awkward minutes we've spent alone together prove that he can't possibly want me for my company.

To my surprise and relief, the Peacekeeper who emerges from the hut is Purnia, a stocky woman in her forties who eats frequently at Greasy Sae's. A good-natured woman – or, at least, reasonably pleasant to deal with. Her gaze falls on me, bundled snugly in the sleigh beside Peeta, and she gives me the smallest of smiles.

"Taking her home, then?" she asks, winking at Peeta.

"I'm a little surprised myself," he replies with a chuckle.

He offers her the envelope but she declines it with a wave of her hand. "Everything's in order," she says, "just make sure you've got the papers anytime you bring her to town. We'd let her back in without them, of course, but not out again."

Peeta nods. My heart lifts a little at the promise of _anytime you bring her to town._

"And mind you take care of her, Victor," Purnia teases, grinning at me now. "We'll miss her cooking back here."

I know what she means. Gale will still bring game to Sae's, but without me, his hauls will be smaller and have further to stretch.

"I will," Peeta promises.

"We'll see you in June, then," she says. She ducks back into the hut.

June is the Reaping. Peeta's coming back for it; does that mean I am too?

There's an ear-splitting buzz and the broad gate swings slowly inward. It surprises me that it's wide enough for the sleigh, then I think of why the gate must have been created in the first place. If the Capitol wanted a point of entry into the district, aside from the train tunnel, they weren't intending it for solo travelers on foot or even a pony-drawn wagon. This gate was cut for vehicles of war.

Peeta gently flicks the reins against Rye, who trots through the opening, pulling us eagerly across the deeply drifted stretch of open ground between the fence and the woods. With another loud buzz, Purnia closes the gate behind us.

And I realize, in a way, we've just escaped from District Twelve. Peacekeepers stay inside the fence. Citizens do, too, without exception – until us.

"Do you ever think of just…making a run for it?" I ask Peeta, a little madly.

"I did," he confesses, his voice so low that I have to lean in to hear him. "The first time I left without an escort. But it's no good. When you defy the Capitol, they go after your family, your friends; anyone you love, to get at you. So if I disappeared – if I didn't show up at my house within a few hours of leaving the district – they'd probably start by arresting my family. If I stayed hidden, someone – probably…" He looks at me and swallows hard. "Someone would get whipped," he says hoarsely. "Publicly."

There's a pain in his eyes that I haven't seen since the Games. I feel nauseous at the thought of the quiet, gentle baker or jovial Marko being whipped to keep Peeta in line. Whippings have fallen out of fashion in Twelve but certainly not use.

"And it's not so bad, really," Peeta says, brightening a little. "I have a lot more freedom than any district citizen – than your average Victor, even."

He's right about that. Until Peeta, I'd never heard of a Victor living outside their district's perimeter, let alone several miles out, on the other side of a large lake. I ask what most of the district's been wondering since he came home from the Games: "How _did_ you get a house outside the fence?"

"It wasn't as difficult as you'd think," he says. "My house has been around since well before the Dark Days. It's held up well, so of course the Capitol had an eye on it. It's too far out to be of use to Peacekeepers, so they kept it to house film crews, Effie Trinket on her odd overnight stay, that sort of thing." He chuckles and I find myself smiling as well at the thought of the garish caricature that is Twelve's district escort. Her hair – wig, more like – had been pink this year; a puff of pearly pink curls paired with a bright green pantsuit. It made my teeth hurt just to recall. She'd looked like a stick of candy from the sweet-shop or maybe a Capitol modification of a wildflower, gone horribly wrong.

"Anyway, they had to wire in electricity and all the other modern conveniences if they expected anyone from the Capitol to stay there," Peeta goes on, "which, of course, was expensive, both to set up and maintain. So they put it into the grouping of houses for Victors to choose from – so someone else could pay for it."

The irony of this is lost on neither of us. The Capitol is still paying for the house, of course, through Peeta's Victor's winnings.

I think of Victors and Reapings, of Purnia's _see you in June _and my conversation with Gale this morning.

"Peeta, what about school?" I ask. "For me, I mean."

He smiles. "Our teachers were surprisingly agreeable to whatever I wanted."

_Our_ teachers. It's strange that he still thinks of us as classmates when he hasn't been back to school since the Reaping. And of course they were agreeable. It would be hard to deny anything to Twelve's first Victor in 24 years, let alone one with Peeta's charm.

"You're free to continue – or discontinue – your studies, as you wish," he tells me. "If you want to continue, I'll send for your school things the next time someone goes to town."

I ask what I really want to know. "And what about the Reaping?"

His smile fades. "Unfortunately, I can't get you out of that," he says, an odd hitch in his breath. "Or cancel out your entries for previous tesserae."

I'm not sure which is more unsettling, the sadness in his voice or the realization that he's already tried. The boy who saved my family from starvation with luxury just a few short hours ago has already tried to get me out of the Capitol's cruel lottery – the very lottery that won him riches and glory and made it possible for him to save my family. When that didn't work, as he must have known it wouldn't, he tried to reduce my entries. No wonder he spent the whole morning at the Justice Building. The rules of the Reaping are absolute; for Peeta to challenge any part of them would require masses of raw nerve, and he would've known going in that there was no way he could succeed. He must want me very badly to have tried.

"Thankfully, you'll never need to take more tesserae," he says, and I can see he's trying to lessen the blow. "And it's only two more years."

_Two years._ I agreed to go with Peeta forever, but forever is incomprehensible. Two years is staggering.

"If you're worried that my…attention will bring you to the forefront in the Reaping, you needn't be," he adds. "In the eyes of the Justice Building – and, by extension, the Capitol – you work for me. No more, no less."

I consider this. Victors' children have ended up in the arena before, but I've never heard of anything happening to Victors' employees. Then again, to the best of my knowledge, Victors don't hire people still eligible for the Reaping.

"And if the worst should happen, I'll mentor you," he says. "I won't let you die, Katniss." The words are quiet but intense, almost a vow. I find it suddenly hard to meet his eyes.

We're in the woods now. Rye's moving slowly on account of the narrow path and deep snow, and the jaunty sound of his belled harness is muted. I'm acutely aware of the soft whoosh of the sleigh runners, the crunch of Rye's hooves breaking the crust of snow.

I'm not a talkative person, but after Peeta's promise to keep me alive, the silence is heavy. I mentally flail about for a conversation to fill it and catch hold of something else I've been wondering for most of the day. "Peeta, there was something…odd when your dad talked to my mom today," I say. I dare a glance up at him; he's nodding for me to continue. "It was like…they knew each other, somehow," I recall. "And this afternoon, when Marko brought us rolls and cookies, he sent her coffee."

"Coffee?" Peeta echoes, raising his pale brows in surprise.

"Some special kind that he used to drink when he was young," I say. "Anyway, Mom…remembered it."

Peeta contemplates this but says nothing. His face is set in the very same expression that his father wears when we're negotiating the price of a squirrel. The baker is more than fair in his trades; generous, really. Just shy of excessive. I wonder if Peeta will deal with me the same way – and realize that he already has.

"Did they?" I press when he doesn't answer for several moments. "Know each other, I mean."

Peeta snaps out of whatever reverie he'd been caught in. "You don't know this?" he says, frowning. "Your mom never said?"

I shake my head. Before today, Mom had never mentioned the baker at all, except for an off-hand comment or two about his bread. Peeta clearly knows the whole story, and though he's not mocking me with his knowledge, still I have the uncomfortable feeling that, somewhere along the way, I was deemed too young or too stupid to cope with this information, whatever it might be.

"They grew up together," Peeta tells me. "The apothecary shop used to be next door to the bakery. Their parents were best friends; I think their mothers were even cousins of some sort, so they spent a lot of time together."

This is already more than I could've imagined, but Peeta isn't finished. "They were friends all through school," he says. "They even…" He clears his throat. "They went out for a while; a couple of years, I think. Dad loved her, wanted to marry her."

I stare back at him calmly, but my insides are in turmoil. I think of the kind, broad-shouldered baker, of the familiarity in his voice and eyes when he spoke with my mother. I imagine them twenty-some years ago: my mother a beautiful Merchant girl with thick golden braids and eyes as bright and lively as Prim's; the baker young and lean, his strong arms unscarred and wrapped around her. Two years is not a casual courtship, at least not in Twelve. He would've been justified in expecting marriage from a relationship lasting even one year.

It's so _wrong_ that I want to scream – and would if it weren't so unbelievable. But Peeta has no reason to lie about this. "W-what happened?" I choke. My tongue is thick in my mouth.

I don't know why I'm asking. I know this part, backwards and forwards. Dad harvested wild herbs for the apothecary – Mom's father – to use in medicines, and Mom got to know him on his visits. One day she heard him sing, or so she used to tell it, and that was it. They were engaged within the month. Her parents disinherited her – disowned her completely – but she loved Dad so much that she didn't mind losing her livelihood and moving to a miner's dark, tiny house in the Seam.

"Your father, of course," Peeta replies. "Dad says he had the most incredible voice he'd ever heard; that when he sang, even the birds stopped to listen. After that, well…" He shrugs. "Dad didn't stand a chance."

Mom had been a beauty in her day – the sort of girl every boy wants for his own – but I'd never in a million years thought that she might've had another boyfriend. That she might've thrown someone else over – let alone the baker – for Dad. It sullies the memory of my parents' love, the one bright thread running through my life that I've known and believed in without a doubt. The thing that had made it _almost_ possible, some days, for me to forgive Mom her withdrawal, her abandonment, her descent into listlessness after Dad's death.

I saw firsthand how passionately she loved my father, almost to the exclusion of anyone else, so that when he died, she had nothing left. I've seen how distant, how disconnected she can be, when her own children are starving to death in front of her. And I realize that she probably broke the baker's heart.

Now I understand the looks Peeta and Mom exchanged when they discussed the baker's role in the arrangements for my family's care. Peeta's father may be the kindest man I've ever met, but I can't imagine he was eager to look after the woman who had left him for another man twenty-some years ago, let alone the child of that man. I'm astonished that Peeta had the nerve to ask it of him.

I don't reply to Peeta. I don't want to know any more. My simple question has unearthed a bitter tale of love lost, involving my mother, whom I'd only just begun not to resent, and father of the boy who, for all intents and purposes, now owns me. I wonder if the baker knew about the bargain before Peeta came to us last night and realize he must have, for Peeta to have involved him so heavily in the arrangements. I'm amazed he didn't talk Peeta out of it. Really, I should count myself lucky that a Mellark – any Mellark – wanted anything to do with my family.

I sink back against the seat and stare out into the woods. The moon is round and full tonight, lighting our way more effectively than the lanterns on the front of the sleigh. We're backtracking a little, travelling southeast from the gate, and I wonder if we'll drive past the little shack by the lake where I used to spend Sunday afternoons with my dad. I haven't been back there in a few months. For an absurd moment, I wonder if the shack could be Peeta's Victor's Residence.

We break from the woods into an moon-bathed expanse of snow and ice: the broad shoreline – grassy and rich with waterfowl in the summer – and the lake itself, both now frozen and silvery and unspeakably lovely beneath their blanket of shimmering snow. I've never seen the lake at night, let alone in winter. I wonder if I should thank Peeta for sharing it with me.

He clucks his tongue at Rye; the sound is sharp and loud in the crisp silence of the frozen landscape. The pony flicks his ears eagerly and lowers his head. He's trotting now, but I can feel him – us – picking up speed.

We're heading straight for the lake. Not the shore, not one of the paths. The lake itself. And I had thought my mother was mad.

I snake out a gloved hand and grab Peeta's wrist, startling both of us. He slows Rye to a stop at the very edge of the shoreline - or rather, my best guess of it - and turns to me with questioning eyes.

"You're not driving onto the lake?" I say. There's an edge of panic in my voice that he can't fail to notice, but I don't care.

Peeta smiles. "Sure I am. It's frozen solid," he says patiently. "It's how I got to town. It'll hold us."

I let go of his wrist and look out over the frozen lake, considering his words. I've walked on the lake in winter before, a few feet out from shore. When my dad was still alive, we would pretend-skate, sliding over the frozen surface in our boots. Dad said that at the height of winter, the entire lake was solid enough to walk across, but a sleigh with two passengers, drawn by a stocky pony, is something else entirely. I shiver.

"Are you afraid, Katniss?" Peeta asks softly.

I look back at him with a scowl, furious that he'd tease me like this, but his eyes hold no mocking. Even his smile is gone. I realize he's not just talking about the lake.

"No," I lie. I'm not afraid of Peeta, even if he broke a Career's neck with his bare hands and speared a bear three times his size. Or maybe I am. A little afraid of those bright eyes that I've caught watching me so many times, only to glance away when he realized I'd seen him. Afraid of taking a sleigh over a frozen lake to a place I've never been before and may never leave. Afraid of why a boy who wouldn't meet my eyes for five years would suddenly want me living in his house, so badly that he's willing to pay exorbitantly for it.

Peeta doesn't call to Rye like I expect him to; instead, he continues to look at me, his eyes somber and gentle. As though he knows there's more to it, things I'm leaving unspoken. I meet his eyes, giving nothing away, and try not to bristle. I've been rude enough this evening for a lifetime, and we've many more years in each other's company.

With an air of decision, Peeta stands up, looping the reins over the panel in front of him, and moves the empty brass bucket from between our feet to the floor on his side of the sleigh, then inches over into the space it left between us. He unfastens the closures on his bearskin and slides it off his right arm, then shakes out the resulting length of fur. The coat is larger than I could've imagined; it's obviously a voluminous fit on him, but I realize now he could almost wrap himself in it twice, neck to ankles.

He sits again, draping the coat – it's lined with even more thick white fur – over the small patch of seat between us, and looks at me expectantly. I stare back, thoroughly confused.

"Come under the fur," he says quietly.

Something trembles deep inside me. "What?" I say.

"It'll be even colder on the lake, and your jacket is thin," he reasons. "Please." He offers the edge of the fur to me.

He has a point. I _am_ starting to feel the cold, especially now that we're so near the lake. I lift my hips – my feet are still snugly immobilized by the blanket and bricks – and carefully scoot onto the length of fur that lies across the seat, then take the edge from Peeta's hand and wrap the bearskin up over my right shoulder, holding it in front of my chest.

I bite back a moan at the sudden flood of sweet warmth against my back and thighs. Even bundled as I am, I can feel the plushness of the double-layer of thick fur, warmer still from its contact with Peeta's body. No wonder he hadn't worried about keeping bricks or blankets for himself.

I'm slight enough that I fit inside the bearskin with ease. If I was a little closer – if I moved in so my hip and shoulder were flush with Peeta's – the coat would close in front, enveloping us both completely. I don't want to, of course; I'm plenty warm as it is – but if I moved over just a couple of inches, I'd be even warmer. The radiant heat of Peeta's body tempts me closer, but I'm used to surviving – even being comfortable – with far less than this, and I ignore it.

Peeta reaches across me to tug the fur tighter around us and meets the obstruction of my hand. We start a little at the contact, though both of us are gloved, and his fingertips brush my knuckles in a gesture that might almost be reassuring. "I won't hurt you, Katniss," he whispers. "Not ever."

"I know," I answer. This time it's not a lie.

I look at him – the clean line of his jaw, the tiny puffs of breath frosting over as they leave his lips, the pale glimpse of his neck between his scarf and the collar of his sweater– and realize how lightly he's dressed under the bearskin. By sharing half of his coat – and keeping my distance, that gap between us – half of his chest is exposed to the elements. Half of mine is as well, but I'm fully bundled in my own coat and sweater and scarves. Peeta must be getting cold.

That settles it in my mind. I inch over until my left side is pressed firmly against Peeta's right. His right arm and my left are mashed together between us, lying half on our respective legs and half on top of each other, and I wonder how I could ever have imagined that I had been warm before this moment. The fur closes in front, yielding to the gentle pressure of Peeta's hand, and he gives a sigh so deep it might be a groan.

I've never really touched Peeta before, aside from our handshake last night and that clumsy split-second of a kiss after the Reaping. I've never even been close enough to. His body is solid with muscle and so exquisitely warm that I have to stop myself from curling my right arm across his chest and pulling myself even closer. Not simply for the heat, but because he smells so unbelievably _good_ – like fresh bakery bread, molasses and ginger, warm wool and crisp winter air and…something else. Something male and warm and good. A small, fierce part of me aches to turn just a little and press my face against his sweater, to soak up the heat of his body and breathe him in.

"Better?" he asks. His voice is a little unsteady.

I'm not sure what the original question was anymore, but how I feel at this moment is better than I ever have in my life. "Yes," I say, breathing deeply and filling my lungs with his scent. The hunter in me could track him to the furthest reaches of Panem by that scent.

Peeta takes the reins in his left hand and clucks to Rye. The pony must know we're nearing home, because the sleigh runners hit the snow-dusted ice with a hiss and suddenly we're flying across the frozen lake, far, far faster than we traversed the Meadow. I wonder that Rye can keep his footing on the ice, but neither he nor Peeta seem concerned at the pace.

I feel myself sinking against Peeta beneath the weight of the bearskin, but I'm so wonderfully warm and comfortable – almost sleepy with it – that I don't care. For this last stretch of our journey we're not master and servant but two fellow travelers, sharing a coat and our body heat on a brutally cold night. Whatever Peeta intends to do with me when we arrive at his house, he's showed me incalculable kindness tonight. I know I'll have to repay him somehow, and soon, but for this brief, strange moment, I'm content to accept his generosity.

"Do you see it?" Peeta asks. There's an eagerness in his voice, the same as when we left my house a short while ago.

I follow his line of vision and see tiny yellow lights – seemingly a dozen of them – in the near distance ahead of us. Peeta's Victor's Residence. I'm not sleepy anymore.

I stare at the lights until they start to swim before my eyes and try to imagine what sort of house awaits us on the opposite shore. I feel a tremor in Peeta's body where it touches mine; not of fear, of course, but elation. He's desperately eager to get there, so eager that he's driving his pony across a lake of sheer ice at breakneck speed. Rye doesn't slip or stumble; indeed, he seems just as excited to be going home as Peeta. The pony is returning to apples and sugar and hay; Peeta to luxury and comfort. What am I traveling toward?

The house looms up out of the darkness of the surrounding forest, and I catch my breath at the sight of what can only be a dream. It's a log home, something my dad referenced in his oldest folk tales, but surely those had never been so large or so majestic. Palatial by District 12 standards, the house is bigger than any in the Victor's Village; maybe as big as the mayor's mansion. Both of its expansive floors have six broad windows, every last one of them filled with welcoming golden light – and that's just the side of the house facing the lake. I can't begin to imagine what the woods-facing side of the house looks like. On the snow-blanketed roof, two massive stone chimneys puff out billows of white smoke – sweet, fragrant wood smoke, not the dirty black smoke of coal fires – and below the many icicle-trimmed gables is a third, partial floor – an attic, I suppose – dotted with small, lighted windows. I imagine one of those little rooms will be mine.

Peeta shifts slightly, and I feel his lips against my stocking cap as he whispers, "Welcome home, Katniss."


	6. A Palace of Wood and Stone

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the longer delay on this one. I was working on a fic for Prompts in Panem's AU week and came up with**The Threshing Floor**, an Everlark retelling of the story of Boaz and Ruth, set on a farm in Thomas Hardy's Wessex. I'm personally a little in love with it (I say, half-jokingly, that my soul went into that story, but that's kind of how it feels!) and would be deeply flattered if any of you want to read it. (I know a hearty handful of you have already, thanks to FFnet's handy author tracker, and am delighted by your support and positive feedback. Thanks a million!) It's technically a completed oneshot, but I'm thinking of revisiting that world with another oneshot around Christmastime… :D

I also played hooky just the _slightest_ bit and found a few new stories that you really need to read while I'm writing Ch 7... :D

-**Two of Us** by Abigail Snow. A PiP oneshot, it's set in the early 1950s and sees Peeta making a cross country road trip with a hitchhiker named Katniss. Simple and exquisite. I melted.  
-**In Season** by rainydaysanyways. Stunning and subtle and earthy-sensual; this was a PiP (though it's expanding, wonder of wonders, into a longer piece!) and features Katniss as a fruit grower and Peeta as the baker who needs said fruit for his creations (and, of course, Katniss for…other things ;D). It's only on AO3, I think, but WELL worth the search!  
-**Inquisitio** by justadram. A PiP oneshot; "Katniss and Peeta in the time of the medieval inquisition in 13th century southern France." This piece is consummate perfection. Find it on AO3, via just_a_dram.  
-**Sever** by (my dear friend :D) DandelionSunset. A gritty yet startlingly tender modern AU, with oodles of angst and sweetness to come. Please check it out!

Oh, and **one final important note** pertaining to this chapter: for the first time, I have deliberately changed something from canon (aside from the changes inherent in the premise of this fic, of course ;D). It's not a major thing, but I've been very, very careful not to mess with canon before now and wanted to give a heads-up in case it bothers anyone. Suffice it to say: it's a relatively minor cheat (in my humble opinion) but would've messed drastically with the content of this chapter if I_ hadn't_ changed it. Here's hoping it doesn't upset any of you _too_ much. :D

* * *

**Chapter 6: A Palace of Wood and Stone**

…_there were many brilliantly lighted rooms…likewise a large hall in which there was a well-spread table,  
and it was so magnificent that it would be hard to make anyone understand how splendid it was.  
So after she had eaten, and night was drawing near, she grew sleepy after her journey, and thought she would like to go to bed…  
She found herself in a chamber where a bed stood ready made for her, which was as pretty as anyone could wish to sleep in.  
_~_East of the Sun & West of the Moon (Østenfor sol og vestenfor mane),  
_by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe, edited by Andrew Lang

Peeta loosens the closures on the bearskin and carefully unwraps it from around me. Outside the fur, the cold is sharp and startling. More startling is how much I want to tug the bearskin back, to fit myself between the double-layer of heavy white fur and the warmth of his body again.

I untangle myself from the blankets wrapping my legs and ankles – the bricks have cooled, but my feet are still worlds warmer than they would've been covered only by my boots – and Peeta offers a hand to help me out of the sleigh. I pick up my wrapped bow and arrows and reach into the rear compartment for my foraging bag; Peeta takes it from me with a small smile as he collects three parcels of his own.

"What do you think?" he asks, nodding up toward the house. His strange elation from the lake has only intensified now that we've arrived; his eyes are so bright and eager that they glitter in the combined silver-and-gold light of the glorious full moon and the uncurtained windows.

"It's beautiful," I answer, feeling a little elated myself. I could love it here, in this huge log house with its clean wood fires and rooms full of warmth and light. No matter where he puts me, no matter what sort of work I'm expected to do. Cooking and cleaning in this veritable mansion will be a dream. Peeta's wealthy; he'll have hot water at every tap and sweet-smelling soaps that are soft on my hands.

And if I'm honest, a tiny ridiculous part of me is relieved to find that it isn't the ancient palace from my dream, with its high stone walls and dusty rooms, filled with silence and nameless fears. I didn't ride here on the back of a white bear, of course, but I was wrapped in the fur of one and sharing a sleigh with Peeta Mellark – circumstances very nearly as unbelievable.

Peeta tethers Rye to a post in front of the house – I gather that he has a servant to stable the pony, or maybe plans to do it himself once I'm settled – and leads me up three shallow steps to a wide stone porch, lit on both ends by cheery electric lanterns. At the far end are two curved-back chairs with a little table in-between, all sturdily built of dark wood. I imagine it's a perfect retreat in the evening. I picture Peeta in one of those chairs, his big hands wrapped around a steaming mug, watching the sun set over the lake. I wonder who the other chair is for.

He pauses in front of the door and looks at me, his eagerness abruptly muted. "Katniss, what do you know about Avoxes?" he asks quietly.

"Nothing," I admit. "When you mentioned them earlier, Mom sort of…gasped. She doesn't usually react to things…at all," I explain, which is a little harsh, maybe, but not unfairly so. "Unless it's something really bad. Usually to do with the Capitol."

He nods grimly. "For tonight, it's enough that you know they can't speak," he says. He's clearly withholding something – something awful – but, at the moment, I'm grateful for his reserve. The Capitol may have outfitted this house for him, may pay for every bit of electricity and hot water and food on his table, but they don't belong in this warm, welcoming place – least of all, on this frosty night of sleighs and bricks and thick white fur.

"If they're particularly excited or upset, they might forget and try to talk," he tells me. "They can produce sounds but not words, so it can be a little startling sometimes. But they'll understand you perfectly, so don't hesitate to speak to them." He gives a small, crooked smile. "We've developed a kind of shorthand from living together these past few months, but they always carry slates and chalk in case they need to communicate something lengthy or complicated. And they bring detailed written instructions when they go to town, of course."

He opens the door and guides me into an entryway: a small square room opening out into the rest of the house, with a long set of stairs straight ahead. I'm immediately struck by how warm the house is – and how good it smells. It smells of fresh bakery bread, golden-crusted and perfect; of yeast and sugary baked things; of cinnamon and sweet burning pine.

I follow his lead, stamping the snow from my boots on the coarse rug just inside the door, and a woman emerges from a doorway on my right. The most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life. My jaw slacks a little in astonishment.

"Hello, Lavinia," Peeta says warmly.

I've watched the Games all my life, seen gorgeous tributes from every corner of Panem, and every last one of them would pale in comparison to this woman. My first thought is that she doesn't need to speak. Her beauty is eloquent enough to win all the friends and lovers she could ever want.

She has porcelain-fair skin and dark red hair – cherry red, almost – pinned in a large, loose bun at the nape of her long slender neck. Red hair is rare in Twelve – Darius is the only red-haired person I've ever seen in the district, and he's actually from Two – and possibly across Panem as well. Among the tributes I've seen, red hair is unusual. Peeta's final ally in the Games – the foxfaced girl from Five – had red hair, though nowhere near as deep-toned and vibrant as this woman's.

Her features are so perfect they might've been chosen from a Capitol catalog: neatly arched black eyebrows over almond-shaped hazel eyes, hemmed by a fringe of equally black lashes; a small, elegant nose; high cheekbones; a slightly pointed chin. Her figure is neat and slender but not skinny; her breasts and hips provide just the right amount of curve beneath her long dress of pretty blue calico. It's an odd garment for such a striking beauty; old-fashioned, really, though it looks stunning on her.

My eyes return to her face and she smiles – a friendly smile, neither smug nor mocking – showing straight white teeth. She's not just perfect; she's _Capitol_ perfect.

"Katniss, this is Lavinia," Peeta says. "My housekeeper, of sorts. Lavinia, this is Katniss."

The woman's smile turns mischievous, crinkling her eyes at the corners, as she reaches out a hand to shake mine. Her housekeeper's tasks must be light indeed; her slim white hand is as soft as Prim's against my callused palm.

"Nice to meet you, Lavinia," I tell her. "Um…I'm looking forward to working with you."

Her eyes shift to Peeta and she raises her brows, seemingly amused by something I said. At least, I _think_ she's amused. Game, I can read with ease, but I've never been great with people. _Subtle as a hammer,_ Gale calls me. Lavinia's striking face is expressive indeed, but interpreting those expressions is going to be like learning a new language.

Peeta shakes his head to whatever is in her eyes; clearly, he's fluent in reading her expressions. "Never mind that now," he tells her. "Would you mind starting the cream?"

Still smiling, she quirks her head toward the room from which she came.

"Already started?" he answers with a laugh. "You have far more faith in me than I have in myself."

Her smile broadens to an outright grin. She steps forward, reaching for the parcels in his arms, and he gives them to her, along with my foraging bag. "These go to Katniss's room," he says. "I'll see to the rest."

_These?_ I only brought the foraging bag, along with my bow. I eye the parcels critically. They're bulky but seemingly lightweight; slim Lavinia holds them with ease. Blankets, maybe – or bed linens? That must be it. He probably hasn't used the little attic room – the room where I'll be sleeping – before now, so he needed to get sheets and things for me.

Lavinia nods at the order and disappears briskly up the stairs. Peeta turns to me. "Have you eaten?" he asks.

"Better than I ever have in my life," I answer frankly. It's the truth, but it comes out sounding a little brusque, and I remind myself not to be so sharp in answer to simple questions.

Far from offended, Peeta gives me a small smile. "I mean _recently_," he clarifies gently. "Supper. I can make something if you like."

"Oh," I say. "No, that's alright. I'm plenty full." A half-lie – after the hearty feast of our lunch, supper was small and insubstantial in my nervous stomach – but it's dark and late. And I certainly don't expect him – or his beautiful housekeeper – to make me anything.

He laughs suddenly. I scowl, certain he's mocking me – my words, my appearance, _something_ – but the expression on his face is simply happy – delighted, even. As though the elation that has been bubbling in him all night has finally erupted. "I never thought you'd be here," he says, almost to himself. "I never thought you'd come."

"Well, I am, and I did," I say bluntly. I know I should soften my words, but I don't understand his excitement and it's making me uncomfortable. "What would you like me to do?"

"Do?" he echoes. He gives a short, surprised laugh; it's joyous, like a sunbreak on a gray winter day. "I'd like you to come into the living room and warm up," he says.

He brings me into a large room at the front of the house, and my breath catches in my throat. The living room faces the lake, and the west wall features three enormous windows – just one pane contains more glass than all the windows in my house combined – for what, in daylight, must be a phenomenal view. The exterior walls are, of course, crafted from logs, smoothly planed and speckled with dark knots, but the interior walls have been painted to look like the woods in which the house was built. It's so masterfully done, from the precise texture of the tree trunks to the dancing, dappled shadows below, that, at a glance, it seems like the room is transparent – or endless. A huge stone fireplace, stacked high with merrily crackling pine logs, dominates one painted wall, and around it are situated two deeply-cushioned armchairs, a broad low table, and a long sofa, crafted of stout dark wood and upholstered in cozy green-and-brown tweed. The carpet underfoot is like moss, dark green and slightly spongy beneath my boots.

"Come here," Peeta says, beckoning me toward the fireplace. I follow gratefully, needing little encouragement. He pockets his gloves in the bearskin and, smiling, takes the wrapped bow and arrows from my hands. "Do these need attention tonight?" he asks.

I shake my head, surprised that he even thought to ask. He places the long parcel carefully – as though it were one of his father's spun sugar creations – on the low table, then he turns back to take off my stocking cap and unwind my bulky layers of scarves. He's tending me like a child, but I don't quite mind. With every garment he removes, I feel more of the fire's exquisite heat on my body.

He reaches next for the buttons on my hunting jacket. It was my father's and is overlarge on me, so the topmost button lies between my breasts, and the brush of Peeta's fingers _there_, however innocently, wrenches a startled gasp from my throat.

Peeta jerks his hands away as though he's been burned, his cheeks flooding with color. "You, um…you can take that off too, if you like," he tells me. "You won't need it anymore tonight."

He sets my hat and scarves on one of the sofa cushions and shrugs out of his bearskin. I'm startled by how human he looks without it. He's still muscular and broad-shouldered, of course, but no longer bearlike in the least. Beneath the fur he's wearing a thick green sweater – evergreen, my favorite color – and brown corduroy trousers that look velvety-soft.

_Laundry,_ I add to my mental list of chores. I'll be washing those clothes soon. I think of Gale's mother, with her chapped red laundress's hands, and remind myself that Peeta has hot running water and Merchant-grade soap. I won't need to scald things, nor use the harsh detergents that are all we can afford in the Seam. And in any case, my hands were rough to begin with.

I pull off my gloves and unbutton my jacket with icy fingers. We weren't exposed to the brutal cold all _that_ long, but my fingers and toes have always been colder than the rest of me, and more so in wintertime. There's little enough to do for it, save throw on an extra pair of mittens – which isn't practical in the least on hunts – so I usually just ignore it. It's easy after a while. Just another gnawing ache; a different kind of hunger.

Peeta takes the garments from me and adds them to the pile on the sofa, then settles me in the armchair to the right of the fireplace. The heat from the fire is glorious; I want to turn, to stretch out my fingers toward those bright, merry flames and fragrant crackling logs beneath, but before I can stir my body to move, Peeta crouches in front of me and takes my hands in his.

He rubs my small dark hands between his large pale ones, gently chafing the blood back into my cold fingers, and the sweet warmth of his bare skin moving against mine is almost overwhelming. I feel myself melting into the touch and wonder, with mild irritation, how his hands can be so deliciously warm when we were both in the sleigh for the same amount of time – sharing his bearskin, no less – and I was even more bundled than he was.

He raises my hands, still cradled in his, to his face, and I feel the moist, radiant heat of his breath on my palms. No one's ever warmed my hands with their breath before. I've done it for myself, of course; countless times on hunts or the walk home from school, but I don't remember anyone else – not even Dad – doing it for me.

It's a startlingly intimate comfort. Peeta's lips are a hairsbreadth from my skin. If I curved my palms upward, even a little, I could cup his face in my hands. He's gold by firelight; gold like fresh bakery bread, like honey and dandelions and lazy afternoon sun. He smells incredible.

The tip of his nose grazes the base of my thumb and I gasp, both at the unexpected contact and the corresponding skip in my heartbeat. Peeta's eyes flicker to mine and he smiles, a small, blushing smile I could almost describe as bashful. He lowers my hands again, resting them on my knees, and bends to my boots. "May I?" he asks.

I nod, confused. Peeta removes my boots, then my socks, and begins massaging my bare feet with his large, gentle hands, sending tiny, fierce threads of heat seeping up my calves to my thighs. My breath leaves me in a shudder as the melting feeling overtakes me, deeper and more primal this time. If Peeta's hands on mine were pleasure, this is ecstasy. His thumbs rub small circles on the arches of my feet, and I hear a tiny moan escape my lips.

I've never felt anything so good in my life, and it infuriates me. I don't know what Peeta's playing at, but this isn't why I'm here, and we both know it.

I jerk my feet away from his hands and curl them behind the legs of the chair, hiding them from his reach. Undeterred, Peeta chuckles softly and nudges over a pair of slippers that I hadn't noticed warming on the hearthstone. They're a woodsy shade of green, plush and fleeced-lined like Prim's boots; like little parkas for your feet. I've never worn even an outer garment quite so thick. I stare at them but make no move to put them on.

Peeta rises to his feet, smiling. It's his father's smile, the playful, eager one he wore after sneaking the peppermints into Prim's coat pocket. "Have you ever had hot chocolate, Katniss?" he asks.

I scowl up at him. "What?"

"Come; I'll show you," he says.

He offers a hand to help me up and I find myself stepping into the slippers. I'm cross at myself, but only for a moment: the slippers are every bit as soft as they look and twice as warm, thanks to the fire. I wonder idly how long they've been there. They're Lavinia's, obviously; we haven't been here long enough for anything from the sleigh to have warmed up this much, assuming Peeta actually _wanted_ to buy me slippers. A ridiculous thought, of course – buying slippers for his new servant – but at the very least, he must have asked Lavinia to put them by the fire this evening. Which means he was planning on bringing me back with him before he came to town.

I follow him across to the kitchen, and the smell of fresh bread is so redolent as we walk in – as though baked into the walls – that I almost weep. If ever there was a room designed to entice you to linger, it would be this one.

The ceiling is made of embossed tiles of dull gold and framed by cupboards of a dark brown wood that run the perimeter of the room. Below those is another level of cupboards, capped with a sleek worktop of luminous amber – granite, I imagine. The floor is paved with rich brown stone, broad flat slabs that look warm to the touch.

Dominating the wall nearest us is a humming silver icebox, nearly as wide as Peeta is tall. Straight ahead, beneath a large south window, is a sink that looks deep enough for me to bathe in, and in the expanse between them stands a trestle table of the same dark wood as the cupboards, with a basket of apples on top and four chairs set around. In the center of the west wall is the biggest stove I've ever seen: a massive, magnificent unit of burnished copper, as broad as the living room fireplace, with six burners and two ovens. I wonder how I'll manage on it.

Lavinia stands there now, patiently stirring the contents of a small saucepan. If I were to hazard a guess, it smells like hot milk – no, _cream_; I remember Peeta mentioning it on our arrival – and somewhere, impossibly, toasted bread. The counter beside her holds a large ceramic canister, three spice bottles, and a honeypot.

Peeta peers over her shoulder at the saucepan and smiles. "That looks great," he tells her. "Thank you." She gives a little nod, a ghost of a smile, and leaves the room.

Peeta waves me to a seat at the table, and my eyes go at once to the basket of apples. Large, firm, perfect apples, in shades of pink and green and crimson-blushed gold. I'm not especially hungry, but still my stomach clenches longingly at the sight. Is Peeta so rich that he has food just for decoration? Experience reminds me that I might not have another chance at such easy pickings, and I burn with the urge to take a couple of apples; stuff them up my sleeves, maybe, since Madge's stupid leggings don't have pockets.

I know better than to anticipate an offer of "hot chocolate," or whatever it is that Peeta's making. Merchant kids are fond of showing off new discoveries without offering to share. Madge is like that sometimes. Not rude, just…unthinking.

I watch Peeta whisk a dollop of honey, liberal pinches of all three spices, and several heaping spoonfuls of what must be powdered chocolate into the pot of cream. I've only had chocolate once before that I remember. I bought a tiny bar from the sweet-shop for Prim's birthday two years ago, and she insisted on sharing it with me. It had been sweet, creamy, heavenly on my tongue. The memory, paired with the heady aroma coming from the saucepan, makes me want to cry.

I swallow hard against the tears as Peeta bends to remove a slice of bread from one of the ovens. It's like a fluid, elaborate dance, watching him in the kitchen. He tastes a spoonful of the liquid, frowns slightly, and adds an additional pinch of one of the spices and another sprinkle of powdered chocolate. He whisks it for thirty seconds or so and tastes it again. This time he smiles. "Perfect," he pronounces.

He pours the entire pot into a mug the size of a soup bowl – _pig_, I call him in my mind. I didn't expect him to share, of course, but I also didn't expect him to prepare such a large portion for himself. He cubes the toasted bread, sprinkles it on top of the liquid, and drizzles over the whole of it with honey. And then sets the mug in front of me.

Of course it's for me. _Entirely_ for me. The unspoken insult burns in my throat like bile. "A-Aren't you having any?" I stammer.

He shakes his head. "This is for you," he says. He hands me a clean spoon, grinning. "Try it."

It occurs to me as I dip my spoon into the mug that he's already had his own spoon in here twice, tasting what I'm drinking. It strikes me as strange, this easy familiarity. I scoop up a spoonful of toast and liquid chocolate and bring it to my mouth.

Chocolate and cream and honey and spices – cinnamon, for certain, and maybe nutmeg – and perfect golden toast, made from his own good bread, no doubt…It's so good that I want to cry – and to hit him soundly across the face. What is he playing at?

"Good?" he asks hopefully.

_Of course it's good!_ I want to snap. _It's chocolate and cream and honey and spices – pure luxury in a cup!_ Instead I nod and push the mug toward him. "You have some too," I insist, "or…I won't."

Peeta shrugs. "Okay," he says. He brings a second spoon and settles in the chair nearest me, scooping up a bite of toast and chocolate for himself. I'm struck again by the intimacy of what he's doing. First tasting the chocolate before giving it to me, and now sharing from my cup. I remind myself that I finished his tea after he left my house last night, but it isn't the same at all.

We don't talk as we slowly sip our spoonfuls of gently spiced chocolate and toast. I realize I want more – all of it, if I'm honest – but it was me who insisted he share. Still, it surprises me when Peeta stops after about five spoonfuls, licking his spoon clean and setting it aside. "The rest is yours," he says, smiling.

This isn't difficult to translate. He knows I want it but won't say as much. I lift the mug to drink, hiding my angry flush, and Peeta gets up from the table – to clean up, I presume.

A few moments later, he returns with a small plate and a paring knife. I frown, confused, until he takes a red-and-gold apple from the top of the basket and begins to slice it, expertly, into pie-perfect slivers. He silently offers the first pale slice to me.

My face burns with embarrassment and anger. Had my desperation been so obvious? I don't need the damn apple; my stomach's had more than its share today. I can't help how I look at food. I've had too many years with nothing.

I want to ignore him, to turn away – or better yet, get up and leave the kitchen. But I have nowhere to go. And Peeta's just being kind, really; there's no mocking in his face.

And I really, _really _want to eat that apple.

I take the slice from his hand and pop it into my mouth. The flesh has a wonderfully delicate flavor; honey-like, yet tart. I don't think twice about taking the second slice he offers, nor the ones after that, alternating bites of apple with long sips of warm, creamy chocolate. We don't speak as, over the course of ten minutes, he feeds me the entire apple, slice by delicious slice. But halfway through, a small smile curves his lips.

When I've finished both the chocolate and the apple, Peeta directs me back to the foyer and up the stairs. "I'll give you a tour tomorrow," he promises. "For now, I imagine you'll want to rest."

I've been in a house with an upstairs before – Madge's has three opulent floors with a study and a ballroom and more bedrooms than I can count, all expensively furnished – but I never dreamed I'd live in one, and my anger from the kitchen slowly fades to wonder. Every inch of the stairs and the floor above is densely carpeted; I want to kick off my slippers and curl my bare toes into it.

Peeta leads me down a hallway, hemmed by three doors on each side, and stops before the middle door on our right. "This will be your room, if you like it," he says, opening the door for me. I step inside.

Like the kitchen and living room, the bedroom is two or even three times the size of a corresponding room in the Seam. I'm peripherally aware of ankle-deep carpet, tall wooden dressers, Lavinia moving quietly about, and yet another cheerfully crackling fireplace, but my attention is focused on the enormous bed. Wider than it is long, my entire family – including Buttercup and Lady – could lie in it and have room to spare. Its dark wood frame is beautifully curved, like Peeta's sleigh, at both ends, and the mattress is heaped with thick, heavy blankets in comforting shades – forest shades – of green and brown and gray. The top blanket, I realize belatedly, is fur. Fox, probably, by the look of it. I ache to bury my hands in it.

There is no possible way that this room, or any part of it, came from the three parcels Lavinia brought up earlier.

"I, um…I bought some clothes for you," Peeta says awkwardly, gesturing at a pale green nightgown draped over a rack in front of the fireplace. "Lavinia will help you get ready for bed."

I look around myself properly now. Dark, finely crafted furniture, matching the bedframe, lines the walls; my few treasures from home have been taken out of my foraging bag and carefully placed on the surface of one of the dressers. Two large windows face east, into the moon-bathed woods. What I had taken for carpet is, in fact, a large area rug – crafted from pelts of some kind, cream-colored and tantalizingly soft against my ankles – over a hardwood floor. The walls are a deep evergreen, so skillfully painted, with those elusive hints of blue and yellow, that I can almost feel the prickle of pine needles, the stickiness of sap, as I place a hand against the wall. The fireplace is built of wild rock and fragrant with cinnamon and pine.

I can see and smell the woods, can feel it in the rock of the mantle, the wood floor and furniture, the fur rug and bed covering. If I inhale deeply enough, I can taste the sweet tang of pine and wood smoke. "It's perfect," I whisper.

Peeta exhales heavily, as though he's been holding his breath. "I'm so glad you like it," he says, smiling. "Please, sleep as late as you like tomorrow."

I don't bother to argue with this. At the moment, I'm too overcome by the lush wilderness of my new room.

"Good night, Katniss," he says softly.

"Good night," I answer. Peeta leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

With an unKatnisslike giggle, I kick off my slippers and stroke the fur rug with my bare feet. I groan at the plush silky-softness against my toes and crouch down to sink my hands into the pile. Lavinia makes an odd throaty sound; I look up and realize she's laughing. Or laughing as best as an Avox can.

"I'm sorry," I tell her, blushing a little at my childish behavior. "I couldn't resist."

Lavinia shrugs, still laughing, and beckons me over to the fireplace. She tugs at the hem of my sweater demonstratively, and I realize she wants me to undress. I take off the sweater, undershirt, and leggings, leaving me in Mom's pale green camisole and shorts. Lavinia contemplates me a moment, then tugs at the camisole hem. I look at her doubtfully and she turns her back to me, granting me privacy. I shrug and pull off the camisole as well, easily covering my tiny breasts with one arm. I hadn't really needed the garment anyway.

Lavinia turns back and helps me into the nightgown. This, I realize, will have come from one of the parcels. The material is soft as fleece against my skin and warm from the fire; the sleeves reach cozily to my wrists, and the skirt hangs to my knees. Lavinia nods, as though pronouncing it a good fit, then guides me to a little dressing table near the head of the bed. I sit as directed and she gently unbraids my hair, then begins to brush it. After a few moments, I realize she's not brushing simply to straighten my hair out of its kinks from the braid; she's brushing like the Merchant girls do. A hundred strokes to make your hair beautiful and shiny. I want to protest but the bristles feel so good – hypnotic, almost – against my scalp.

I want to rebraid my hair when she's done but it feels like a cloud, weightless and soft against my face. I steal a glance in the mirror and realize, with my hair brushed out properly, I look almost pretty. "Thank you," I tell her, and mean it.

Lavinia disappears for a moment into an adjacent room and returns with a warm washcloth for my face and hands. It smells of chamomile and feels wonderful against my winter-dry skin. When I've finished washing, she takes the cloth away and returns with a jar of some sort of cream that she dabs gently over my cheeks and lips – where I'm most chapped from the cold and the wind. The cream is thick and smells headily of roses; it melts soothingly into my skin on contact. It must be Capitol-crafted, because when I bring a hand to my cheek, the chapping has already begun to soften and fade. Lavinia works a little of the cream into my hands as well, leaving my dry, cracked fingertips instantly smooth. I have no words to thank her this time.

She turns back the blankets on one side of the bed and removes a long-handled brass pan from between the sheets. I recognize it vaguely: it's a warming pan, filled with hot coals. Madge has one; I saw it in her bedroom once when we worked on a school project together. It warms up the bed before you get in. I think how wonderful it would be to have one of these at our home in the Seam, then remember that we don't have the extra coals to fill it. Or, at least, we didn't before today. Mom and Prim have more coal now than they know what to do with. I wonder if Peeta bought a warming pan for their new house.

I slide between the warm sheets and lie back against the flock of pillows placed along the head of the bed, only to be assailed by the bright, clean scent of pine, strong and very close by. I sit up at once and shift aside plump feather pillows till I find one that, by scent and texture beneath my fingers, can only be filled with dried pine needles.

Lavinia raises a brow – asking if it's all right, I think. "He put a pine needle pillow in my bed," I say, incredulous.

She holds up three fingers and smiles. _Three._ Three pine needle pillows for my bed. In case the wood and stone and fur weren't enough. I lie down again, my cheek on the pine needle pillow, and Lavinia tucks me in, pulling the blankets up around me. She stirs the fire, turns out the light, and leaves.

It's all so wonderful and I'm so angry. What kind of a bargain _is_ this? _Let me feed your family, Katniss. In return, I'll warm your feet and make you hot chocolate and give you a bedroom crafted from the woods you love._ Peeta's made no mention of my duties yet, but this…this ridiculous generosity is a horrible way to begin. _Sleep as late as you like?_ How on earth am I supposed to cook him breakfast if I'm sleeping as late as I like?

I turn to my back in a huff – and a cloud of sweet pine scent – and stare at the ceiling, longing for Prim. For her slight weight on the mattress, for a body to curl up against. _Couldn't they find one,_ I wonder, scowling, _in this luxurious house?_ After all, for the first time in my life, I have someone to get me ready for bed. Someone to dress me in pretty nightclothes and brush my hair till it shines, to scent and smooth my body with Capitol creams. Though, why I need to _be made ready_ for bed, I really don't understand.

And then, with a shiver, I do.

Everyone expected it. Everyone saw this coming – everyone but me. Gale with his warnings, Madge with her pills; even Mom, with her beautiful underclothes and careful pampering, her precious gifts and strange talk of weddings. She wasn't insane in the least. She was preparing me for my wedding night, or the closest I'll ever come to it. Preparing my body for a man. A man who's coming to my bed tonight.

My flight response kicks in, hard. I surge up in bed, my heart racing, my breath coming in ragged shallow pants. The sweet apple slices and hot chocolate, so comforting in my stomach just a moment ago, lurch warningly toward my throat.

I force myself to be calm.

_He'll be gentle._

I think of Peeta's hands rubbing warmth into my hands and feet; of his breath on my palms, his shy smile, his fiery blush when he inadvertently touched my chest. I think of him tasting the hot chocolate before giving it to me, then sharing my cup. I think of the heat and smell of his body under the fur.

_He'll be gentle_.

And then I remember watching him wrestle. The strength in his arms, the solid trunk of his body, his powerfully muscled legs…wait, he'd lost a leg – or part of one – to the Games. I wonder madly if it would slow him at all if I kicked his right knee.

I remember watching him lift flour sacks in the market. I remember watching him break a Career's neck with his bare hands. I remember watching him kill a bear three times his size, despite a gory wound that finally took half of his right leg. A scrawny Seam girl, whose most fortifying meal before this afternoon was blackbirds in gravy, will present no challenge whatsoever.

I shudder violently, feeling tiny and powerless.

_He'll be gentle. He'll be gentle. He'll be gentle._

I abruptly wonder why he bothered with the whole charade. Any girl in Twelve – in most of Panem, probably –would be Peeta's for the asking. He's kind, strong, good-looking – a Victor, for pity's sake! He literally has money to burn. And he decided to spend it on my family, so I would come to his house and sleep with him?

I would've expected better business sense from a Merchant. For what he's giving – has already given – my family, I'm certainly no bargain. I'm dark, plain, bony, and scowling; a sixteen-year-old girl with the breasts of a child. I've never even kissed a boy before, let alone done "other things." If Peeta's expecting a night of bliss in exchange for his generosity, he's going to be sorely disappointed.

I said I'd do whatever he wants. And, of course, I will. Poorly, but I will – because I owe him.

My mind swirls with images, with sensations that my body can scarcely comprehend. His big hands would be firm on my bare hips. His breath would smell of spiced chocolate – or maybe still of Prim's peppermint candies. His body would be warm – _so_incredibly warm – against mine. His skin would smell good.

I shiver in my palatial forest bed and hope he just wants to…_have_ me…tonight. To climb over me and tug up my nightgown and do what boys do in back alleys and behind the Hob: a few quick grunts between my thighs while he gropes my breasts and pants hotly at my neck. I've seen it from the corner of my eye, learned the science behind it in school, even caught glimpses of it in the arena, but I don't have a clue how it works in reality. I think it's supposed to hurt – a lot – the first time.

I wonder if I should take off the rest of my clothes, so I'm naked when he gets here.

I bury my face in the sweet pine pillow and cry. _No no no no no._ I'm not ready for this. I didn't expect it. I don't want it. I want Peeta to give me a list of chores, find me a little cupboard to sleep in, and bring me out for a conversation every now and then, like I told Gale – like I believed Peeta wanted, when I told Gale. I'm not desirable – I'm just one of a thousand scrawny Seam brats with black hair and muddy skin and sooty eyes – and I certainly didn't come cheap. He could've had anyone in Twelve for a night, a month – forever, even – without money or gifts. With no strings at all. Why, why, _why_ did he come to our house in that storm and offer Mom and Prim lifelong comfort in exchange for me?

I'm half-asleep, exhausted by fear and weeping – despite Lavinia's best efforts, my cheeks are rough and burning from tears – when I hear the footsteps. Every nerve in my body is instantly alert, on edge. My heartbeat pounds, thick and eerily slow, at my temples. For the first time, I understand how my prey must feel. The terror is blinding and nauseating.

The steps are soft but heavy. It's not willowy Lavinia; she moves like a doe. The steps are uneven…is it the effect of a prosthesis on an ordinary gait or just hesitation? It could be the other Avox, the one I haven't met yet.

The footsteps stop on the opposite side of the bed. I hear the quiet sounds of someone undressing: fabric tugged over flesh, the shift in breath as garments are removed and discarded. It seems to take a long time, as though the person is stripping completely. I press a fist to my mouth to stifle a cry.

The blankets are slowly turned back. The bed is almost impossibly wide, but the movement still uncovers my back and shoulders. The person sighs. The weight of a body settles on the opposite side of the mattress. I stop breathing and bite my lip hard to hold back a whimper.

It can't be Peeta.

I said I'd do whatever he wants.

The blankets are drawn up again. I let out a shallow, shaky breath and wait for the hand. The hand at my shoulder, turning me onto my back, or maybe the hand at my thigh, tugging up my nightgown. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe evenly. Maybe he'll leave me alone tonight if he thinks I'm already asleep.

I think of his body under the bearskin, so warm and smelling so good, and try to imagine the rest. A man who shared his coat with me, who warmed my feet with his hands and made me hot chocolate…it wouldn't be horrible. I know little enough about sex, but I know he'll be kind. And…I'll let him, because I owe him, more than I could ever dream of repaying.

The silence in the room is heavy, suffocating, as the wait stretches on. I can feel the person's eyes on my back. I have to say something. After all, maybe it's _not_ Peeta. Maybe Lavinia's heavier-footed than I thought, and I'm getting caught up in this terror for nothing.

But the longer I wait, the less right – and more foolish – it seems to speak up. If I was going to say something, I should've done so right away. And I can't turn over to see who it is, because if it _is _Peeta, he'll know I'm awake and then there's nothing to stop him forcing himself on me.

The person shifts under the blankets – my body goes rigid with anticipation – and gives a quiet moan. A sound so full of longing and loneliness that my heart aches in reply.

It's the only sound they make before their breath evens out in slumber some ten minutes later. I lie awake much longer, cold and untouched and deeply confused, wondering how another person's presence can make a bed feel so painfully empty.


	7. A Never-Ending Feast (Part One)

**Author's Note:** Thank you all _a thousand times over_ for not giving up on this fic. This chapter has given me about six kinds of agony, and I finally gave in and split it into two parts. (Part Two is not yet finished, but I promise you won't have to wait months for it - not to mention, Part One is the longest chapter yet, so it should tide you over for a little. ;D)

Special thanks to **DandelionSunset** and **annieoakley1** for supplying feedback (read: decorous squee, in advance) on drafts of this chapter, as well as to **sponsormusings** and**jeeno2**, to whom small but strategic teasers were leaked. :D

Happy reading, my darlings.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: A Never-Ending Feast (Part One)**

…_a table appeared, set with the finest meal one could imagine.  
Never before had the girl tasted such food.  
_~_East of the Sun and West of the Moon, _retold by Kathleen and Michael Hague

I wake up hungry. Not gnawing ache hungry, nor the too-familiar numbness that comes from long-term hunger; just plain _hungry_. Like in the days when food was sufficient – not plentiful, but sufficient. The hearty fare yesterday – Peeta's hamper, the rolls and cookies, the luxurious hot chocolate and apple – has stirred up my long-suppressed appetite. I want breakfast, and for the first time in a long time, my mind's not telling my body not to get its hopes up.

I'm alone in the massive bed with the covers tucked snugly around me. Every last bit of my body is toasty warm, from my bare feet, buried beneath layers of soft blankets, to the tip of my nose, currently burrowed into the silky pile of the fox fur coverlet. Amidst the slightly musky scent of the fur, I smell cinnamon, fragrant burning wood, and sharp, sweet pine, whispering through the linen of the pillow beneath my cheek.

I'm so deliciously content that I don't want to move – until my bladder gives an impatient twinge, reminding me that I need to find the bathroom, and promptly. I open my eyes with a reluctant groan to find the room bathed in bright, pale winter sunlight from the windows above the bed. I slept too well and far too long; it must be mid-morning at the very least.

I turn back the blankets and shift up onto my knees to peer out the window. The glass is delicately painted with swirling feathers of frost, made iridescent by the morning sun. Beyond, I glimpse forest: an endless expanse of treetops, their barren branches traced with snow. A lonely sight, perhaps, but at this moment, one of the most comforting I've ever seen. This is the view from my bedroom – from my bed itself. I live in the woods now.

Smiling at the thought, I look back from the window and take in the bedroom at a glance. The fireplace of wild rock, banked with fresh logs; the evergreen walls – in daylight I see that they're textured with pine-needle-like indents, as though someone pressed a branch into the wet paint to create patterns – the dark wood furniture; the fur coverlet. In more ways than one, I live in the woods now.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, resigned at last to getting up. As my bare feet sink into the plush fur rug, I recoil, gasping, at a sudden, terrifying influx of memory. The white bear's fur against my feet as he lay behind me in the dream. Huddling inside Peeta's bearskin for warmth in the sleigh. Shivering with fear under a blanket of fur as a stranger came to my bed – a silent stranger, but for that sad, low moan and the soft breath of slumber.

My own breathing comes hard and frantic as my mind races over parts of my body. Nothing hurts. Nothing feels any different, really. I'm warm and comfortable, more so than I've ever been in my life.

Could Peeta have…_done it_…and I didn't know? Could _anyone_ be that gentle? Could he have…_had _me while I was asleep – or could the hot chocolate have been drugged? I was scared last night – terrified, even. Could I have blacked out during the act – or forgotten it all, in the shock? I've heard of things like that happening before. Mom's treated girls who've gone through it. Cray's girls, mostly, who forget what happened to them till they see the blood and bruises on their bodies.

I tug up my nightgown frantically. The little lace-trimmed shorts are still as they were when I put them on yesterday afternoon. There's no blood, on my thighs or on the fabric. Either Peeta wanted me awake or…maybe he didn't want me at all. Maybe I'd been right all along. Or maybe I'd imagined the whole thing, and no one came to my bed last night.

I lower the skirt of my nightgown again and turn to look at the pillows on the opposite side of the bed. If there had ever been the indent of a head, it's since been carefully smoothed away – and any imprint of a body from the blankets as well. When I woke, they were nestled around me like a cocoon, as though I was the only person in the bed. Lavinia had tucked me in before she left last night, pulling the blankets up to my chin; I remember that for certain. But I don't remember her tucking the blankets so snugly against my back, as they were when I woke.

My bladder twinges again; my panic isn't doing it any favors. There's a door to the left of the fireplace; I recall Lavinia going through it last night to get a warm washcloth. Hopeful, I pad across the fur rug to open the door and suck in my breath at the sight of the room beyond. In astonishment, but also because I feel like I've been plunged underwater.

The bathroom, for so it is, has a floor of earthy gray stone and walls of a drowned, deep-water blue, so skillfully painted that they appear to be liquid. As though a hand placed on the wall would sink, at least to the wrist, beneath its fluid surface. Straight ahead, beneath a window twice as broad as the span of my arms, is the toilet and, on the wall to its right, a tall, round-bowled sink. Both are made of some sleek silvery-blue material and simple enough in construction, albeit a hundred times finer than our crude facilities in the Seam. Next to the sink is a closed door that must lead to the hallway.

I'm momentarily horrified at the idea of such large, prominent windows in the bathroom – they take up nearly all of the north wall and half of the east – till I realize there's no one out here to see. The room stands at tree level, and no one lives in the woods but us. Still, I tug the curtains – they're filmy and pearlescent gray, almost cloudlike – closed before using the toilet.

Built into the corner of the room to the left of the toilet is an enormous round bathtub, big enough for two or even three people to use at once. The bowl of the tub is made of wild rock – like my fireplace, only polished smooth – and the square surround is painted with tiny fish and water plants in breathtaking detail, with katniss leaves – and blooms – spilling across the ledge at the top. As I look at the tub, I can feel the slick brush of water weeds against my calves and the playful nips of the painted minnows at my toes. The katniss plants are so superbly depicted, it seems you could tangle your fingers in their slender spikes as you reclined.

Bathing in this tub – you could very nearly _swim_ in it, broad as it is – would be like soaking in a hidden pool in the woods. Except, of course, the tub has a water tap – or rather, two of them. One for hot water, one for cold. I try to imagine having enough hot water to fill this tub and fail miserably. It would take four times the amount of water I bathed in last night, and by the time the last of it was boiled, the first would be cold.

Adjacent to the tub – taking up almost a third of the large room – is something I can't identify and so approach cautiously. If this was a Merchant house, it might be a shower, but it's nothing like the shower in Madge's house. Built of the same wild rock as the tub, it looks like a cave – a roofless, rectangular cave – with overlapping panels of cloudy, watery blue glass across its mouth. I carefully slide one panel open and peer inside.

It _is_ a cave. A cave with a floor like sand, pleasingly rough against my callused feet, that slopes to a silver-screened drain in the center. To either side of me are craggy walls of rock, haphazardly piled to leave all manner of ridges and hollows, and straight ahead, at about the level of my thighs, is an outcropping; a primitive bench, really, also made of rock, albeit smoothed for comfort, like the tub. Above the bench is yet another large window, spanning the length of the strange cave-room, with a broad ledge that holds an assortment of slim plastic bottles.

Curious, I step inside for a closer look at the ledge's strange contents. They're soaps; Capitol-crafted liquid soaps for face and hair and body. The cave is a shower.

I look around me in surprise. There are no taps, no spouts, no buttons or knobs in sight; the patch of ceiling above has a vent, nothing more. There's no way to get water out of the rocks, nor any place for it to come from. And yet, that's clearly what this strange room is used for. The floor is damp beneath my bare feet, and I stretch out a hand to one rock wall to find it wet as well. Someone showered here recently.

_Peeta._

I should have known at once. The faint lingering scent of fine soap – honey and cream and cloves, rich and comforting – it's part of his personal smell. I think of his hand on the rock wall, like mine, as he stands here, naked, and I tremble with something that isn't quite fear.

I have next to no experience with naked men. Glimpses from the Games, of course, though I'm quick to cover Prim's eyes and turn away myself at the slightest warning, and Mom's patients, now and again, are undressed entirely for treatment. In that respect, Prim's far more mature than I am. She once helped patch up a miner with a thigh wound that cut perilously close to his groin. I don't know which was more unsettling: the ragged, bloody gash in his flesh or the sight of my little sister nimbly stitching it closed, the back of her small hand practically brushing his genitals.

I have no experience whatsoever with fit and healthy naked young men, let alone living under the same roof as one, and my cheeks burn at the thought of it. I've seen Peeta in his wrestling uniform and shirtless in the Tribute Parade; the rest is not difficult to fill in. The firm curve of his backside, the narrow dip of his hips…

I duck out of the cave-shower, splash my hot face at the sink, and go quickly back to my room. I notice now what I had missed earlier: an assortment of clothing – none of which came from my foraging bag – has been laid out for me, draped over the rack in front of the fireplace. There's a long green-and-gray plaid skirt of heavy wool, paired with soft gray tights. A pair of corduroy trousers, the color of strong coffee and velvety under my fingers – as I'd imagined Peeta's would be, last night in his living room.

I shake away the thought and continue my examination of the garments. There are two sweaters, one forest green and the other pebble gray, both robustly woven of hearty wool. They'll itch a little, I suspect, but be so warm that I won't care in the least. Next to them, conveniently enough, is a long-sleeved cream-colored undershirt, soft and weightless as duck down. Below the rack is a pair of stout black shoes with buckles, new but supple, with a pair of thick wool socks resting across them.

I try to guess at what my chores will be, based on these clothes. Everything is sturdy and warm; practical, really, even the skirt. Outside, then. Chopping wood, probably, and maybe mucking out Rye's stable. I don't mind working outside – I'd prefer it, even – and it looks like a beautiful winter day. Maybe I'll have a few free moments to scout the woods and get a feel for the game out here.

I find Mom's camisole, folded neatly on top of the nearest dresser, and slip that on first of all. I hardly need the undergarment, but it feels wrong, vulgar almost, putting on these fine new clothes – Merchant clothes – over my bare breasts. I dress in the corduroys, the soft undershirt, and the green sweater, reasoning that I can always take off a layer if I get too warm, and find the fit surprisingly good. Not perfect, but much closer than I expected.

Peeta would have guessed at my size when he bought the clothes yesterday. He has an artist's eye for detail, of course, but it still feels strange for him to have thought about the proportions of my body. He would've done it for Prim as well when he purchased her coat and boots, but this feels different, somehow. More intimate. I imagine Peeta holding up the corduroys, envisioning my hips in them, and frown. The trousers are about a half-size too large, but I suspect that, like Prim's coat, he did that deliberately, intending for me to gain back the weight I lost this winter. Which means that Peeta, in fact, has a _very_ good understanding of the shape and size of my body. My heart gives a funny little stumble at the thought.

I sit at the little dressing table to tug on the socks and shoes – also an impressively close fit – and brush and rebraid my hair. It's mussed and tangled from sleep, like a mass of black cobwebs, and I shake my head at the foolishness of having left it loose all night. Having my hair brushed out by Lavinia was an unexpected treat, but I should've listened to common sense and rebraided it when she was finished. I know better than to try to be pretty.

I'm too late for breakfast, I'm sure, but I doubt Peeta will make me go hungry. Another apple would do for me; an apple and some tea – _and maybe,_ I dare to hope, _a piece of bread._ I slip out of my room and into the brightly lit corridor beyond. Tomorrow, of course, I'll be making his breakfast. I wonder if he has a big appetite, and how I'll ever manage a meal on that massive stove.

The smell meets me on the stairs. Griddle cakes, frying in real butter. Cooked fruit, mouthwateringly ripe and richly spiced. Sizzling meat, seasoned and cured – _sausage_, I realize. And fresh bread, yeasty and baked to perfection.

My hands start to shake. I thought the bakery was the most amazing thing I'd ever smelled, but this onslaught of delicious odors is almost crippling. Hunger roars up in my belly, growling and furious. I _want_, so badly that my vision goes spotty.

I grasp the railing with both hands and try to collect myself. Peeta's kind – unbelievably kind and generous – but that's no reason to assume that any of that cooking food is intended for me. He'll see that I'm fed, of course, but there's no need to do it so extravagantly. I'm just a servant, after all. Bread and a little cold meat is more than enough for me – more than I've had at home for most of this winter.

But _oh, that frying sausage!_ I can nearly taste it in the air, and it stirs an almost feral urge to grab and tear and fill my mouth.

_I'll bargain_, I decide, combating the urge with reason. I'm a tough trader, after all.I have little enough to trade with, and less still that anyone here would want, but Lavinia – it'll be her that's cooking, of course – is from the Capitol; she might not know the going rate for things out here. Of the few precious items I brought with me, which can I bear to part with?

Mom's dress. I don't need it, really. I know why she sent it now. _You should have something pretty to wear when – he takes you to his bed._ She wanted so badly for me to go to Peeta as a bride, finely dressed and gently perfumed.

I don't have a clue what Peeta wants of me, but it didn't seem to matter what I was wearing last night. I don't know who – or for that matter, if _anyone_ – came to my bed. Really, there's no reason to hold on to a pretty dress that I'll never have occasion to wear – and the leaf green will look amazing on Lavinia, with her porcelain skin and dark red hair. It's not up to Capitol standard, but it's certainly Merchant quality. It should barter a portion of sausage, at least; maybe even one griddle cake.

I descend the last of the stairs and consider whether I'm being too hasty. I might need something later, something more vital than sausage. Maybe I should save the dress for a more pressing need.

Then I think of the Games and sponsors, of the escalating cost of gifts the longer the Games drag on. Of how what buys a full meal on day one buys a cracker on day twelve. Lavinia's from the Capitol, so she probably plays by their rules. My very best chance of trading a Merchant dress for meat is today. Right now. I step into the kitchen.

It's not Lavinia, it's Peeta. Standing over his enormous copper stove and fussing with a range full of saucepans, the sleeves of his dark blue sweater pushed to his elbows. My heart plunges into my stomach. There will be no bargain now. Peeta will have no interest whatsoever in my mother's clothing, and besides, it would take far more than a twenty-year-old Merchant dress, much-mended and made-over, to buy a plate of what he's preparing.

I must make some sound of dismay, because Peeta suddenly looks up from his work, spies me in the kitchen doorway, and beams. "Good morning, Katniss," he says cheerfully. "I see the clothes fit." He blushes a little at that. "I hope you didn't feel you had to wear the ones Lavinia put out; there are more in the dresser."

Before I can wrap my mind around _more clothes in the dresser_, he asks, "Did you sleep all right?"

"Yes," I tell him, though I narrowly bite back adding, _Weren't you there?_ His expression gives nothing away; he looks, more than anything, _delighted_. Certainly neither guilty nor nervous. _Could_ he have been the stranger in my bed? Could his have been the hand that drew back my blankets, then drew them up again to cover us both? Was it _his_ warm weight on the mattress opposite me? Surely this radiant young man can't be the person who made that strange sad sound.

"I'm sorry I slept so late," I say, never mind he told me I could. "I'll be up tomorrow in time to make breakfast." I come a little closer to see the contents of the stove – _to see what he expects of me,_ I tell myself, nothing more – and my stomach gives a silent, painful howl.

Apple cider and cinnamon sticks simmer cozily in one saucepan at the back of the range; another holds peach slices, bubbling in syrup over a low flame. A large skillet stands empty, slick with melted butter, with a tall stack of griddle cakes on a platter beside it, and the small skillet on the burner opposite is filled with scrambled eggs, fluffy and sprinkled with herbs. At home, we scramble our eggs – any eggs I can scavenge, however tiny – to make them stretch farther. These will be proper chicken eggs, scrambled simply for the pleasure of it. Yet another skillet holds the sausages I want so badly, brown and crisp and and sizzling lazily in their own juices. Down the counter are two perfect round loaves of bread, golden and cooling.

I lick my dry lips and look up to see Peeta frowning slightly at me. I wonder if he's mad at me for getting up late or for nosing around his stove like a Seam urchin. Except he doesn't quite look angry. "Um…do you want me to serve you?" I offer, a little helplessly. It's the only thing I can think of, seeing as he's prepared a week's worth of food.

His frown clears, like a cloud passing the sun. He chuckles gently. "No, I'll do that," he says, smiling. He pulls out a chair for me at the table, directly in front of a yet another platter of griddle cakes. I sit as directed and press my palms hard against the underside of the table, fighting the urge to snatch one up. _Not for me, not for me, not for me,_ my mind chants frantically.

And Peeta _does_ take the platter away, carrying it over to the stove. "I was actually going to bring you up a tray in another minute or two," he says over his shoulder. "I figured you might be tired after yesterday."

I watch him ladle peaches over the mountain of griddle cakes and scoop a heaping pile of eggs onto the emptiest side of the platter. From the sizzling skillet he takes three sausages, then pauses a moment before adding a fourth to the platter as well. He carries the platter back to the table and splashes over the peaches with cream from a little ceramic pitcher, then places it back in front of me. "What would you like to drink?" he asks.

I don't know how I didn't see it before. The tall glass and mug above the plate, the knife and fork and spoon to either side. I'm poor, not primitive. This was a place setting to begin with.

I stare down at what I had mistaken for a serving platter. It holds more food than my entire family would eat in a day. And Peeta's just given it to me casually, as though this sort of thing is too regular an occurrence to bear remarking on.

"I've made coffee," he explains, gesturing at the silver stovepot on the table, an elegant cousin to what my mother uses at home. "I never liked it much before," he admits, "but this makes a really good cup." Next to the coffee pot stand a small peppermill and a salt shaker, the tiny bottle containing more salt than my family's had in a month. I realize I won't need either. It feels almost offensive, adding to something Peeta clearly took great pains to prepare.

"Otherwise, I've got cider," he goes on. "I keep it simmering most days – but I can make tea if you'd rather have that. There's milk and orange juice too…or I could make hot chocolate again?"

I'd hoped for tea at the most, and would've been content with a cup of water. "Um…cider?" I say weakly.

Peeta smiles. He takes the mug – the same bowl-sized one he filled with hot chocolate last night – ladles in three scoops of the simmering cider, and sets it to the right of my plate. "Do you mind if I eat with you?" he asks.

I have decent table manners, thanks to Mom. Does he think I'm embarrassed have him watch me eat – or will _I _embarrass _him_? "When else would you eat?" I ask in reply.

He shrugs good-naturedly. "When you're done," he says.

I frown. This is all backwards. Peeta serving me food, asking if I mind _him_ eating with _me_. "Eat now," I tell him, a little too sharply. "I'd feel stupid eating with you just waiting around."

Peeta nods and goes to make himself a plate, but my restraint is exhausted. I pick up the fork and devour, all the while forcing myself to go slowly, to chew every bite thoroughly before swallowing, to _not_ pick up the food with my fingers, no matter how hungry I am or how badly I want to. The cream-drenched peaches are tender, simmered with brown sugar and nutmeg; the griddle cakes hearty and filled with oats and finely chopped nuts. The sausages – real pork sausage, perfectly fried and slightly sweet – taste of sage and apple. The eggs are airy and lightly seasoned with pepper and thyme, the perfect counterpart to the other rich flavors.

Peeta sits in the chair nearest me, but I hardly notice. My throat is sore all of a sudden; I wonder if I caught a cold in the sleigh last night. I take a long drink of cider, hoping the heat and cinnamon will soothe it. I have a sniffle too – from the steaming hot food, I assume. I stare down at my plate as I eagerly eat bite after bite after bite.

I don't realize what's happening to me until the tear strikes the edge of my plate with a ping.

Peeta's out of his chair and crouched beside mine before I'm even aware that he moved. "Katniss, what's wrong?" he asks gently, his kind face concerned. "Is something wrong with the food?"

"You…fed me," I choke, stupidly, because there are too many words to say what I really mean. _I was prepared to trade one of my mother's last gifts for a few bites of this food, and you gave me this huge plateful without me even having to ask._

"I said I would," he says softly. His lips are smiling, but his bright eyes are sad.

"You said…you said you'd 'take care of me,'" I recall, sniffling noisily. For some reason, it's imperative that he understand this – that, in fact, he'd promised very little.

He takes a handkerchief from his left hip pocket and offers it to me. "I also said you'd have the very best I can give you," he reminds me. "I meant to ask if this –" he gestures up at my plate – "was good enough. I hoped it would be, but…your reaction has me a little confused."

I silently take the handkerchief from him and notice for the first time the scrap of red cloth tied around his left wrist. His sleeves are still pushed up from cooking, or I'd never have seen it. I recognize it immediately; I just didn't expect to see it here.

It's his district token. Nobody knows where it came from or what it means, just that it means a lot to Peeta. In the arena, especially at night, he would tug back the cuff of his jacket and press his lips against the fabric, almost desperately. Wishing, hoping, longing; no one was quite sure, but, regardless, he did it fiercely. It would've been filthy by the end, muddied and stained with blood and body soil, but he never took it off. People wondered if it was something to do with the girl he loved, but I figured it was from his father. After all, if this girl didn't know he was alive, why would she have given him a token to take into the arena?

I wipe my nose with Peeta's handkerchief and redirect my eyes to his face. He's still waiting for a reply, his expression tentatively hopeful. "It's – more than good enough," I tell him, and his smile is so wide it makes my chest hurt. "It's _too_ good," I elaborate, both from guilt and the need to alleviate that strange pressure around my heart. "Too much."

"Too much food?" Peeta puzzles, eyeing my half-devoured plate. I understand his confusion, a little. He knows my family's been living on almost nothing, and if the portion is generous, it's unlikely a starving person would complain.

"Too much for _me_," I explain. "I'm just…you could've just given me an apple or something."

His sweet, gentle eyes turn suddenly intense, almost angry. "You're not 'just' _anything_, Katniss," he says hotly. "And as for the rest: I've been looking forward to this morning for a long time. Nothing in the world could've persuaded me to offer you a mere apple as a meal."

And then, all at once, his fire is gone. "Unless…" he says, blushing sheepishly, "unless that's what you really wanted. If that's what you asked me for."

I wonder if he has any idea how ridiculous he sounds. Is his feast _good enough_ for me? He'd never give me an apple as a meal, unless it'swhat I _asked him for_? It's like the invent-as-you-go reasoning of a small child, except it doesn't _feel_ silly. I feel strangely warm at his words, and blame it on the layers of clothing and the rich food in my belly. "It's good," I reassure him. "It's – perfect."

He smiles, looking relieved, and gets back into his chair. The movement is a little stilted; I wonder if crouching is painful with his prosthesis.

We continue our meal in silence, but the brief pause gave my brain and belly time to communicate. I realize I'm full, almost uncomfortably so, and set down my fork. Peeta looks up at the sound, and I distract myself with my mug, taking slow sips of the spicy-sweet cider to soothe my stretched stomach – and draw my vision away from his curious frown.

"Would you like more of anything?" he asks.

I glance between him and the partial plate of food still in front of me. "I'm full, I think," I tell him. "But thanks."

He reaches over – I assume to take my plate away or maybe to refill it, despite what I said – but instead his hand carefully encircles my wrist. Spanning it, I realize. I know his hands are big, but his thumb and forefinger meet too easily – overlap one another – around the stark, prominent bones.

Peeta's thumb traces a tendon in my wrist, making me shiver. His brow furrows worriedly. "_Please_ eat more," he says, almost pleading. "Have all you want."

"Why, so you can eat me in a month when I'm fattened up?" I retort. I say it snidely, but it comes out sounding so absurd that I immediately laugh at myself. Peeta stares at me for a moment, startled, then laughs too. The sound of his laughter, coupled with the gentle grasp of his hand around my wrist, makes the strange, startling warmth flare up inside me once more.

The laughter must shake my stomach up a bit, because I manage to clean my plate after all. I'm extremely full – fuller than I think I've ever been in my life – but not painfully so. I get up, collecting my dishes to take to the sink, but Peeta's already on his feet, taking them from me. "I'll do that," he assures me with a smile.

My confusion increases yet again. I didn't cook, I didn't serve, and he doesn't want me to clean up. "What would you like me to do, then?" I ask, more than a little exasperation creeping into my voice.

I know there must be no end of cleaning to do in a house like this, but Peeta seems in no hurry to assign my tasks. In fact, he's grinning like a child given a long-awaited toy. "Do you skate, Katniss?" he asks. His voice is downright playful.

"W-what?" I sputter.

"The ice is thick enough for the sleigh," he explains, "so I imagine it's perfect for skating. I know you go to the lake, but I didn't know about…during the winter."

My brain hurtles past skating and sleighs to _I know you go to the lake_. "Wait…how do you know that?" I rasp.

"Well, you sell fish and ducks at the Hob," he reminds me with a crooked smile. "And…" His eyes drop to the dishes in his hands. "I've seen you a few times," he admits. "Gathering plants. Hunting and fishing. Swimming, once."

I look away, my cheeks hot. Of course. Peeta lives on the other side of the lake, too far to see anything from his house, but coming and going – especially during warmer weather – he'd follow the lakeshore back to town. He might've gone right by me with his pony and cart, a dozen times or more. How had I never seen or heard him?

This is weighty information, and for a moment I can't breathe. Peeta could turn me in to the Peacekeepers for this. At the very least, I'd get a lashing; I could even be executed. But then, if he wants me dead, he's going about it a rather expensive way.

I feel his eyes on me again and force myself to meet them. "Who would I tell, Katniss?" he asks softly. "And why? You fed a lot of families, including your own. And…" He gives me a small, sad smile. "You seemed happy out there," he says.

Once again, I'm shamed by his kindness – and how well he knows me. I _am _happiest in the woods – and at the lake – but I thought only Gale and Prim knew that. Somehow, it doesn't irk me that Peeta knows this too. He could've used the knowledge against me, but instead he brought me to live in this perfect house in the woods, knowing – or at least, guessing – that I could be happy here.

"Will – with you being gone – will anyone still do that?" he asks. "The hunting and gathering, I mean."

"Gale will," I tell him. "But he works in the mines now, so he'll have less time, and no one to help him."

Peeta nods absently. He looks contemplative, almost distant, as though he's working out a tricky puzzle in his mind, then his vision abruptly clears and focuses on me once more. "So, is that a yes or no to skating?" he wonders, grinning.

"I don't have skates," I point out needlessly.

His grin broadens. "Yes, you do," he corrects. "Come here."

He ushers me, almost giddily, out to the foyer, where he picks up a strange pair of what look like sandals from the floor next to my hunting boots. He hands them to me, still grinning, and I turn them over in my hands, fascinated. I've never had skates; never even _seen_ a pair before, let alone held one. They're simply constructed: a blunt silver blade, curling up at one end, anchored beneath a foot-shaped platform, with wide leather straps at the toe and ankle. I could wear them with almost any kind of shoe, and the size wouldn't matter overmuch, as long as the straps were snug.

Peeta bought me skates. He's sending me to play in the snow like a child. I haven't done that since Dad died. I think of us pretend-skating, scooting across the ice in our worn old boots, a mere week before the explosion that took his life – and wonder if I can bear it.

I gorged myself at breakfast. I need the exertion. And I told Peeta I'd do whatever he wants. "Thanks," I manage, even chasing up a tight smile for him. "These'll fit over my boots, right?"

Peeta looks uncomfortable, nervous even, and I know it's not about the boots, which will clearly work with the skates. "Um…if you want…" he says, and his voice is a little unsteady, "I have…well, a few other things you can wear outside."

I follow him into the living room, and my mouth falls open at what waits for me there. Warming in front of the fire is a pair of boots that could be a twin to Prim's. Fawn-colored suede, lacing to the knees, lined with fleece. A Merchant girl's dream of new boots; the very best to be found in the district.

The coat next to them, however, carefully draped over its warming rack, has never seen its like in Twelve before. The style is somewhat like Prim's; the coat is made of fine wool and cut long, to cover my hips. But there the similarity ends.

It's red – bright, deep red, like strawberries and new blood – with buttons of polished bone and vines of embroidered white flowers and deep green leaves on either side of them, trailing from collar to hem. Katniss flowers and arrowhead leaves. Again, always, katniss.

And _fur_. The coat has a voluminous hood, trimmed and lined with thick white fur. A quick glance reveals that the hem and cuffs are fur-trimmed too. I can't stop my fingers from reaching out, from stroking it eagerly, and I moan a little at the sleek softness.

I catch up one sleeve, meaning only to touch the cuff, and find it far heavier than I would've expected, even for a garment of good wool. Frowning, I crouch down for a closer look and confirm what I almost can't believe. It's not just the hood: the _entire coat_ is lined with white fur. A fur I know well, though I've never touched it with my bare hand.

I wouldn't be much of a hunter if I didn't recognize it.

"Peeta," I choke. He doesn't reply, and I don't look up to see his face. "This is your bear's fur," I say weakly.

"It was a big bear," he answers. His voice is tight and strange.

I look up at him, frowning. His cheekbones are stained painfully dark, but not with embarrassment. There's something he's not telling me, something he's almost afraid I might understand.

He didn't buy this coat in town yesterday. He couldn't have ordered it from the Capitol yesterday. And it's unlikely that when his stylist cut up the bear's pelt to make his coat, she was intending to save any of it for a future use. Which means this coat was made the same time as his, or very near. He'll have had it since the Victory Tour, at the very least – a month or more. And with its bone buttons – are they from the bear as well? – and my namesake embroidered down the front, it couldn't have been made for anyone else.

_Why did you have a coat made for me, with your own hard-won fur?_ I want to demand. _Were you already planning for this on your Victory Tour – for our bargain, for me living in your house? _And most perplexing of all: Why_ am I here? Why did you want me? Why do you shower me with rich food and gifts and comfort, when I am here to serve _you_?_

His eyes darken a little. I wonder if he can read my thoughts in my eyes, and give voice to none of them. "Peeta, this is too much," I say instead.

"Do you like it?" he asks. His voice is still strange, tight and edged. Not angry, not disappointed, but strained; like a man reaching the limits of his endurance.

"Yes," I whisper. My fingers are still greedily, irrationally curled around one fur cuff, as though if I let go, this fairytale coat might vanish into thin air or, at the very least, be taken away from me.

Peeta visibly relaxes, melting back into himself. "Then it's not too much," he says, his lips curving up again in his familiar smile. "It's exactly right." He pauses a moment before adding, "Although…it's not practical, I suppose –"

"It's perfect," I assure him, for the second time this morning, as I get to my feet.

Peeta gestures for me to turn around and helps me into the coat. I sigh gustily as the heft of it settles at my shoulders, caught up in the magnificent feel of the lining. Thick silky fur, dense and heavy and warm from the fire; it's exactly like being inside Peeta's bearskin again, only without Peeta. The realization is at once delicious and slightly hollow.

My body is covered by the sweater and corduroys, of course, but my wrists and neck are exposed to the coat's lining, and the feel of the white bear's fur on those tiny patches of bare skin is almost intoxicating. A mad part of me wants to shed a layer of clothes, maybe all of them; to feel the fur against my naked body. My cheeks burn at the thought and I brush it aside in favor of a deeper emotion: sheer, almost exhausting relief that the coat _fits_.

Like the clothing, the coat is slightly large on me; a full size, at least. A perfect fit during the cold months, when I might be wearing any number of layers underneath. If it had been too small – this decadent dream of a coat, made just for me – I think my heart would have broken. Not for my loss, but for Peeta's. The boy who doesn't know me – who _can't_ know me – who'd barely spoken a word to me in his life before yesterday…who had a coat made for me, lined with the most precious fur in Panem and embellished with the blossoms of the common water plant that gave me my name.

He turns me around again and smiles broadly, my relief mirrored in his eyes. "May I?" he asks, demonstratively tugging the coat's edges together. I shrug, and he begins slotting the bone buttons. I squirm a little as his strong, deft fingers inch purposefully down my body, coaxing buttons through snugly stitched buttonholes that have never been used before, but the coat is too thick for me to feel more than a fleeting pressure at his touch.

When he's finished encasing me from neck to knees in cherry red wool and white bear's fur, he reaches behind my neck with both hands and raises the hood, draping it over my head with a playful smile. It's deep and roomy and almost unbelievably warm; I can feel fur against my ears and cheeks and half want to sink into the fireside armchair, to burrow into this coat and sleep away the winter like a bear.

"Good enough?" Peeta asks hopefully, his eyes dancing.

"Too good," I reply, but I can't resist returning his smile.

I _do_ sit for a little then, because Peeta wants to help me on with the new boots as well. My leather hunting boots have contoured to my feet and calves after so many wearings, but there's something even better about having laces – to say nothing of the plush fleece lining, reaching from my toes to just below my knees. And they're a decent fit on top of it. I can well imagine how Prim must've felt when the baker first laced her into her new boots. No wonder she had flown out of the house to show Vick and Rory. As indolent as I feel in the coat, with these boots on, I can scarcely sit still. Suddenly, skating seems very much the order of the day.

Peeta produces three more gifts, not nearly so expensive as the coat but equally warm and beautiful. A pair of butter-soft brown leather gloves, lined with fur – rabbit this time – and a scarf and stocking cap, both of an earthy evergreen shade, trimmed with tiny embroidered pinecones and far softer than anything knitted can possibly be. It must be wool; it _looks like_ wool, and yet it feels like fur. Thoroughly confused, I run a few inches of the scarf between my fingers and give Peeta an inquiring look.

"Do you like it?" he asks, smiling. "It's rabbit hair."

"Hair?" I frown. Rabbits have _fur_; sleek, soft fur, like what lines my new gloves. I've skinned enough of them to know.

"It's a special long-haired rabbit," he explains. "They shear them like sheep and blend the hair with wool. Portia, my stylist, has a coat made of it – soft, like fur, but much lighter."

I push back the hood for a moment to pull on the downy cap and adjust my braid – the hood drapes perfectly in the back to accommodate it – then raise the hood again and wrap the scarf around my neck. I'm so warm it's ridiculous. "Are you sure about this?" I ask Peeta, frowning, as I pull on the fur-lined gloves. _Shouldn't I be doing the dishes?_ I add silently. _Or your laundry, or –_

"Entirely sure," he replies, smiling. He retrieves the skates from the floor, where I set them when I put on the coat, and presses them into my hands. "Go on; enjoy yourself," he urges me. "I'll give you a tour when you get back."

Since Dad died, I've done precious few things just for the pleasure of it, and on the whole, I haven't missed them. But standing in Peeta's living room, bundled head-to-foot in warm luxury, gazing out his windows at the frozen lake with a pair of skates in my hands, I positively _ache_ to be out there.

Peeta doesn't have to prompt me again. I burst out the front door, only to pause on the stone steps to breathe deeply of the sharp, crystalline air. There's no taint of coal or soot, only the resin of pines and a tickle of woodsmoke amid the pure, sweet cold. Curious, I stick my tongue out a little, tasting the air like a snake. It's nothing like Twelve. We left the district last night…did we travel farther than I thought? Is this the same lake I used to harvest from when I crept beneath the perimeter fence?

I scurry down the steps into the blue-white snow; it shimmers, diamond-like, in the late morning sun. The drifts are deep, up to my knees and higher, but someone's cleared a path to the edge of the lake, maybe thirty feet ahead. A little bench stands there, crafted of wrought iron with wood slats forming the seat. Another overlook for this beautiful scene – and practical for my purposes too.

I sit on the bench and carefully strap the skates onto my new boots, eager and confident. I'm agile and coordinated; not graceful, maybe, but certainly capable of maintaining my balance even on the most precarious of tree limbs. So when I stand up for the first time, balanced on the blades, and my legs wobble like a newborn kid's, I hardly know what to think – and that's on snow-packed ground, not ice.

I shift my weight a little to stabilize myself, scowling. The entire weight of my body, however slight, is balanced on the equivalent of two hunting knifes with elaborately curled tips. Who _does_ this, let alone for fun?

I think again of my dad, of "skating" together in our boots. He would've loved to try out proper skates and would've given anything for me to have some, let alone this finely crafted pair. He'd joked about it the winter before he died; told me he wanted to start saving up to get me "real" skates, only how on earth could he buy them without word getting to the Peacekeepers? There's nowhere to skate inside the fence; they'd have been on to us at once.

To me, Dad's talk of ice skates was yet another fairy tale, like log houses and sleighs and enormous white bears. And now all of that is a part of my daily life, as ordinary as coal dust and poverty and roasted squirrel were yesterday.

I step gingerly up to the lake. If Dad were here, he'd be overjoyed. Ice skates; shimmering pure snow as far as the eye can see; a rich, hearty breakfast; this dream of a red coat, lined with fur. I was young when he died, but I know this is everything he wanted for me. Food, warmth – freedom, after a fashion – and happiness. For his sake, I bite back my scowl and step onto the ice, resolving to enjoy myself, no matter how many bones I break.

I catch my breath as the blades touch ice and automatically reach out for Dad's hand. He's not there, of course; no one is. Embarrassed, I keep that arm outstretched and extend the other as well, as a pretense of keeping my balance – and, surprisingly enough, it seems to help a little. I scoot one foot forward with a soft hiss, then the other. It's a stilted, wind-up toy sort of movement – my joints are locked, save at the hips – but it's working. I scoot ahead a few more careful steps before my right foot slips wildly ahead and I sprawl onto the ice in a graceless heap.

I curse Dad, ice, winter in general, and Peeta Mellark. I wonder if Peeta might've bought the skates purely for his own amusement: to watch Katniss Everdeen fall down, over and over again. Both the kitchen and the living room face the lake, after all: he could sit beside his stone fireplace with his coffee, warm and cozy, and laugh himself hysterical. I clamber to my feet again and glower back at the house just in case, letting him know that I don't find this funny at all.

But I _do_. The third time I fall, I roll onto my back on the ice, laughing hard. I'm exactly like a goat kid trying out its legs for the first time. And thankfully, Dad taught me how to fall without hurting myself – overmuch, at least – to relax into a fall, not to tense up. I might still bruise a little, but I won't have the full body aches that come from hitting the ground with rigid muscles – and thanks to Peeta's thick clothing, I'm well cushioned. I'll have a bruise or two on my knees, probably, but little else.

With a sigh, I let my head sink back into the fur-lined hood and gaze up at the sky. It's a pale wintry blue today, bright and clear. A chickadee gives its buzzing call from nearby; I peer over to see it perched on the back of the bench and smile, whistling back to it. A bruise on my knee is little enough to pay for this moment.

I climb back up again and hear Dad's voice in my head, a snatch of memory. Not chiding, but merry: _Bend your knees, catkin. You're waddling like a duck._

I try it and am immediately surprised by the increase in stability and the ease of moving forward. I can slide my feet fluidly forward, one after the other, instead of stiffly scooting from the hip and having to consciously, clumsily shift my weight on each step. I probably still _look_ ridiculous, but I _feel_ much more graceful. It's a bit like dancing, I realize. No one's good at it to begin with, but you find ways to have fun at it until you get better.

Steadier now, I try skating in one big, lopsided circle. Sustaining the bent knees pulls on my thighs, but in a good way. They work a little harder like this; over time, skating would make them grow stronger.

I wonder if Peeta skates – living, as he does, a stone's throw from the lake – and just as quickly answer myself: _of course not!_ Skating requires strong, agile knees and ankles. Peeta was able to keep his knee, but everything below it is prosthesis now. They've never shown it close up on television, and I wonder what the ankle is like. If it's rigid, he could balance on it and propel himself with his other leg. If it's flexible, like a real joint, he'd have a better range of motion, but less stability. Maybe skating would be good for him.

I blush at the presumption. Who am I, to make those kinds of judgments? After all, Peeta's done well for himself in his recovery. He's gained back the weight he lost in the arena, and it's clearly the firm contour of muscle, not the fleshy result of a rich man's indulgences. For some reason, that makes me blush even harder.

By my third loop of the circle, I'm moving faster and it's starting to feel _good_. The soft whooshes of the blades against the ice, the crisp air kissing across my cheekbones as I pick up speed. I'm exerting myself purely for pleasure – not for survival, as the Capitol's tried to reduce us to. My stomach aches from a generous meal, not from hunger; my thighs from skating, not from running and climbing in pursuit of my next meal. Peeta's done more than save my life, and Mom's and Prim's; he's defied the Capitol in the gentlest, most generous way possible. The thought makes me smile. Dad would've liked that too.

I skate loops until I lose count, then switch to long straight lines, running the length of Peeta's house. On my first pass I notice a wooden outbuilding just off the north end of the house, set back a little into the woods. The stable, I imagine, though a building that size – it looks to have a second floor, even – could house a Seam family of at least six.

The sun climbs higher, and I realize it must be close to noon already. I woke much later than usual today; Peeta will probably want his lunch soon. I should go back inside, tidy myself up, ask what he wants to eat.

I skate over to the bench, sit once more, and reluctantly loosen the straps. I'm genuinely surprised by how much I enjoyed it. I wonder if I asked – if I was up very early and got my work done well and quickly – if Peeta would let me go skating again.

I leave the bench and promptly tumble face-first into a snowdrift. My feet want to slide, not step; for a moment they don't quite remember how, and I laugh like a child at how ridiculous I must look.

A deep rumbling sound startles me – an echo of my laughter, but altered somehow; throatier – and I look up, expecting Peeta, to see a stranger: a bearded man in a heavy parka, standing a few feet away in the direction of the outbuilding. He points at me, then at the house. I realize he must be the other Avox and scramble through the drifts over to him, the skates dangling from my hand. "What was that?" I ask.

I understand what Peeta meant about both of the Avoxes being "distinctive" in appearance. The man isn't as beautiful as Lavinia – I doubt _anyone_ is, anywhere – but he's still quite striking. Tall – at least a head taller than Peeta – and burly; he's built a bit like Peeta's father. His eyes are blue and ordinary enough, as is the sandy hair curling out from beneath his stocking cap, but the thick beard covering the lower half of his face is _red_. A bright russety shade; more Darius-red than Lavinia-red, but still: not blond, not brown, not black. Not a color I've ever seen growing out of someone's face before.

More remarkable than this, at least to me, is that he smells like my dad. That sharp, fresh scent of woods and wind and snow; the smell of a man who spends a great deal of time outdoors. For weeks after Dad died, I quietly cried myself to sleep with my face buried in his hunting jacket because it smelled like him. Before we became quite so desperately poor and _had _to make use of every last little scrap, that's why I wore his sweaters too.

This man smells of other things too: woodsmoke and hay and the warm musty scent of the pony, whereas Dad smelled of coal – coal fires; coal dust; the close, almost intangible odor of a hundred men sweating out their fears and breathing in each other's sorrows in a lightless mine shaft. But the association is too strong. Already I like this strange red-bearded man – _trust_ him, even – and I don't even know his name.

He touches his mouth lightly with a leather-gloved hand – I guess that's shorthand for _I'm an Avox_ or maybe _I can't speak_; I nod in reply – and he gestures more deliberately this time. At me, then at the house.

I follow the direction of his hand to see Peeta standing on the porch, coatless, his sleeves still pushed to his elbows, watching us and smiling. My lips curl up in an answering smile of their own volition, and I give a little wave, which he returns.

When I turn back, the Avox is holding a wood-framed slate, about the size of a notebook, and writing on it with a sharpened piece of chalk. He turns it around for me to read.

_You happy makes him happy._

Something strange stirs in my chest. I look up at the Avox questioningly; he nods, confirming what he's written, and I glance back at Peeta again. Still smiling at me – at _us_, I correct myself – he looks content, even at this distance. As though he'd be perfectly happy to stand on his porch for the rest of the day and watch his servants cavort in the snow. I wonder how long he's been out here already. If he saw me fall and curse and laugh – and slowly begin to master the skates. I'm surprised by how badly I want him to have seen _that_, and tell myself I just want to justify his faith in me. He may be wealthy, but the skates can't have been cheap. I'd hate to be a poor return on his investment.

It's different from when I thought he was sitting inside, watching me for his own entertainment. Something about him coming out here, the quiet happiness in what he's looking at – even if it's simply the beauty of this winter morning – takes my breath away.

The Avox gives another rumbling chuckle, and I turn back to him. He's rubbed out the message on his slate; it now features an arrow pointing up toward his face and the name _Pollux_.

"Nice to meet you, Pollux," I tell him. "I'm Katniss."

He grins. _I know_, he writes, underneath his name. Like Lavinia, he seems aware of my purpose for being here – far more so than I am – and slightly amused by it. It rankles a little – I hate the idea of anyone laughing at me, for whatever reason – but there's something gentle in their humor. As though it's the _situation_ that's funny, not me. I wonder what Peeta told them before I came.

Pollux wipes the slate clean again with the heel of his hand and writes another message. _Want to see the stable?_

Of course. He's probably supposed to train me; show me my outdoor duties. No wonder he came along when he did: I'm finished with my recreation, now it's time for chores. "Sure," I tell him. "But shouldn't I change first?" Peeta's coat is wonderfully warm, but it's too costly, too precious, too _beautiful_. A few days of mucking out stables and chopping wood would ruin it. No wonder he'd apologized for it not being "practical."

"I can get my hunting jacket," I tell Pollux. _And my boots,_ I add mentally, thinking of pony dung staining the fawn-colored suede of my pretty new boots. "It'll only take a minute."

He frowns quizzically and scribbles another message: _Just to look._ He points at the stable, then back at the slate.

_Just to look_ at the stable…? Maybe he simply means to show me around today, so I can start work tomorrow. Or maybe I'm meant to work in the house with Lavinia, but I still need to know about the stable and outdoor things.

Pollux holds out the slate again. This time it reads _Won't get dirty_. He makes an all-encompassing gesture at my fine clothes, giving me a small smile.

"Okay," I concede, and follow him to the outbuilding.

The stable is about as wide as my family's house and half again as tall, with a concrete floor, electric lights, and a small wood-burning stove that, if the temperature in here is any indication, is very effective at keeping the place warm. Straight ahead of us is the sleigh, polished to gleaming, and beyond that is something large – presumably Peeta's cart – covered with a tarp for the winter. Opposite the sleigh are three stalls; the rear two stand open and empty, and at a cheery whistle from Pollux, Rye's long white face appears over the gate of the first.

Pollux ruffles the pony's pale mane with one hand and waves me over with the other – clearly, encouraging me to come and say hello – but I hang back a little, uncertain. Rye is a grazer, a gentle beast of burden. I'm a meat-eater. A hunter. _Danger_. While I can never again think of this docile creature as a potential meal, still I wonder if he scents that primal hunger. If he can smell blood on me.

To my surprise, as I approach, Rye stretches out his neck, lipping at the right hip pocket of my coat. I'm reminded of his playful persistence last night, begging Peeta for treats, and shake my head with a chuckle. "I don't have anything," I tell him, reaching demonstratively into my fur-lined right coat pocket, only to bring out a napkin wrapped around a small wedge of apple and a piece of carrot.

Peeta. Again, always, Peeta. He would have guessed I'd end up in the stable this morning and accordingly sent treats for Rye. I can't believe I didn't feel them in my pocket with all the falls I took this morning.

Rye reaches hopefully for the food, his neck stretched almost flat with eagerness, but I dip back a step and, no longer able to resist, take a bite of the carrot myself. I haven't had one in over two months, and that had been a shriveled thing from the grocer's trash bin, chopped into weak rabbit broth to stretch further. This is fresh, firm and crisp and sweet.

The pony tosses his head impatiently; laughing, I step forward again, holding out my palm the way Prim showed me, and let him take the apple and what remains of the carrot. When he's finished, I dare a hand to his cheek, spreading my fingers to cup the broad bone. I rarely touch living animals, much less with affection, and never any quite so big. I can feel the heat of his body, even through the leather and fur of my glove, and I inch my thumb a little higher to stroke the hollow beneath his large, luminous eye.

I'm poised to dash back or withdraw my hand if need be – even a grazer's teeth can do serious damage – but Rye merely nuzzles against my hand, whuffling softly. Pollux gives a throaty chuckle, and I look over to see him holding up the slate with one word written on it.

_Friend._

As with Madge, the word is unexpected and brings with it a bubble of giddiness – warmth, even. I peer up at Rye, considering. I suppose it isn't the strangest thing in the world, a horse and a hunter becoming friends. I comb through his pale forelock with my gloved fingers and feel my lips curl into a smile. If I'm going to be out here for the rest of my life, I suppose a few extra friends can't hurt.

Pollux walks me around the stable, indicating the corner designated for Rye's hay and grain stores, the two empty stalls – my mind envisions chicken roosts in one, maybe a goat in the other – and the narrow stair leading to the second floor. _Loft_, he writes before waving me up. At the top of the stairs is a small living space, rustic but sufficient, with a small bed, table and chairs, and a cookstove. Like the stable below, it has electric lights.

"Yours?" I ask. Pollux nods.

If the stable below was mild in temperature, this room is downright cozy. Clearly intended for practicality rather than elegance; the windows to each end are hung with simple cotton drapes, and a large woven rug covers most of the floor. It's the sort of room that would have done very well for me. The sort of room I expected when I arrived here.

I follow Pollux downstairs and he shows me the workshop at the back of the stable. There's a workbench, battered from years of use long before Peeta came, empty but for a can of nails and a few pairs of rough work gloves. Hanging from the wall alongside the bench are a few basic tools: a hammer, handsaw, ax, and pruning shears, polished and sharpened and ready for use. Below those are propped a rake, two shovels, and small hand tools.

_There's a garden._

I'm not aware that I spoke the thought aloud till Pollux holds up the slate again, a lengthy message on it this time: _There's a lot more, but you'll have to wait till spring to see it._

He's very nearly grinning, and I can't resist returning the expression. There's no place to garden – garden _properly_ – in the Seam. Mom grows herbs in broken old pots tucked into the warmest corners of our house, and Gale and I have made small efforts to cultivate some of our wild harvests – putting nets over the best patches of wild strawberries to keep away birds and deliberately reseeding foraged herbs near the edge of the woods whenever we can. A richer, more accessible harvest helps us all.

Pollux leads me out of the stable through the back door, and I find myself on the woods-facing side of the house. There's a chopping block to one side of the door, and the aromatic pile of neatly stacked firewood nearly covers the entire back wall of the stable. Peeta won't need me to cut more for a while, I surmise.

Between the house and the trees is an expanse of softly drifted ground, as long as the house itself and twenty or so feet wide, with lumps here and there suggesting bushes beneath the snow, and a lone skeletal tree – a fruit tree, most likely – standing at the center. This must be the garden. At the south end of it stands a little trellis, wound about with winter-browned vines, with a stone bench below. A pretty spot in spring, I imagine.

To my surprise, there are just as many windows on this side of the house as on the front. I count two for the bathroom – one over the round stone tub, the other built into the cave shower – two for my bedroom, and two for the room adjacent to mine that I haven't seen yet. Above those, tucked beneath the gabled roof, are several small windows, and below – at the main level – are six more windows, curtained and mysterious, with rooms behind them that I can only guess at. About halfway along is a set of wide stone steps, leading up to the back door.

Pollux walks me back the way we came, and I ask if there's anything I need to do before going back in the house. Rye appears to be comfortable and well fed, the stable is perfectly tidy, and there's more than a week's worth of firewood, cut and stacked behind the stable. Someone's even shoveled paths through the snow. In addition to the one I took down to the lake, there's a narrow swath circling the house and another between the house and the stable.

Pollux shakes his head with a smile, and I turn to walk back to the house, but I've barely taken ten steps when something hits me in the back with a soft wet thud. It doesn't hurt in the least – my coat's too well-insulated for that – and I turn back, suspicious, to see Pollux lingering in the stable doorway, whistling nonchalantly.

I may not be good at reading people, but I know a challenge when I see one.

I quickly scoop and pack a handful of snow and let it fly, smacking him in the chest. Far from disconcerted, Pollux delightedly returns fire. He's stronger than me but slower and far less accurate; my years of hunting – of surviving on what I can hit with arrows and stones – have instilled in me swift reflexes and a keen degree of marksmanship, even in a snowball fight.

I honestly can't remember the last time I threw a snowball. The snow in Twelve is filthy with coal dust, and starving as its citizens are, there's little energy for any of us to waste on recreation. It feels so good, forming one perfect white snowball after another and pelting them at Peeta's jovial manservant – luxurious, almost, like the skating.

I triumph, of course, though Pollux manages to get in a few decent hits. He finally disappears into the stable, laughing throatily, gloved hands up in a gesture of surrender. I crouch and wait, grinning, for another sneak attack, but he doesn't reemerge.

Resigned to the end of our game, I turn back to the house, but I'm so flushed from the exertion that I decide instead to flop onto my back in the snow. It's so gloriously warm inside my fur-lined coat and fleecy boots; I'm like a rabbit in its burrow, peeping out of my cozy bundling at the winter day.

I swish my arms and legs through the snow surrounding me and find myself making a snow angel. Dad taught me this when I was a tiny child – before Prim was born, I think – _but only in the woods, catkin_. Then as now, the district snow was almost tarry with coal dust; to lie in it was as good as ruining your clothes, and even then, we had few to spare.

I sit up, remembering another childhood occasion, when I held a bowl of fresh snow in mittened hands while Dad drizzled a hot amber liquid over it – maple syrup, boiled over the fire in the little shack by the lake. _Maple taffy, _he called it, though I always thought of it as "sugar snow." We brought home and sold all the rest of the syrup he harvested; it made me sad not to be able to make the treat at home and share it with Prim, but only the snow at the lake was clean enough to eat, Dad said.

The snow around me is pure white and begging to be tasted. I scoop a little in my gloved hand – it almost looks like sugar, heaped on my palm – and bring it to my mouth. It's clean and fresh and very cold – so cold it makes my teeth ache. I've eaten snow for hydration before, but it never tasted quite like this. _Maybe Peeta really _does_ live in some kind of fairyland, _I muse._ Even the snow is delicious._ I laugh at the thought and lip up another palmful of snow.

Dad and I also used to make snowmen in the woods. Looking at the heaps and heaps of snow around me – it was "sticky" enough for snowballs, so it'll be perfect for a snowman – I'm overcome by the desire to make a snowman _now_. I'm already unforgivably late back to the house; surely Peeta won't be angrier for a delay of a few minutes.

I climb carefully to my feet, so as not to ruin my snow angel, and form a compact ball of snow with my gloved hands. I roll it around the drifts until it's too big to move – almost waist high on me – then make another, half the size, to heft on top of it, and finally a third, half the size of the second, to place atop that. One perfect snowman, nearly as tall as I am, and not in the least dingy or gray with coal dust. Gleeful, I hop through the drifts like a hare and dig at the lakeshore with the toe of my boot until I find a few pebbles to create my snowman's face. This close to the woods, fallen branches are plentiful; I find two of a similar size for my snowman's arms and break away twigs to form his hands.

"He looks cold."

I start at the sound of Peeta's voice and look up, blushing and mortified. It's been at least half an hour since I saw him on the porch; in the meantime, I've been having a snowball fight, making a snowman – playing like a child. I have no words to explain myself, let alone to the grand young man standing beside me. He's dressed in his bearskin, the winter sun glinting gold off his blond curls.

"Here," he says, smiling, and unwinds his own scarf – a thick length of soft red wool – to wrap around the snowman's "neck." "That's better."

My jaw slacks a little. It's the very thing my father would've done – _had_ done, even when the scarf around his neck was the only one he owned, and I'm reminded again of what an incredible father Peeta will be. Such a gentle, generous boy, with his big, warm hands and superb cooking and these little moments of playfulness. Scarves, ice skates, and peppermints…He'll pamper his wife with every comfort and tumble on the living room's mossy carpet with their children. Blond children, of course; chubby and fair-skinned and curly-haired. He'll show them how to feed Rye and will sneak apples and carrots into their pockets; maybe he'll even lift them up to sit on the pony's broad back. He'll teach them to paint and knead dough and make snowmen.

Something aches, low in my belly, at the thought of it, and I wonder, not for the first time, what happened to the girl he loved. The Capitol crew – the bizarre, colorful trio who came to film friends and family interviews when Peeta survived into the final eight – unearthed nothing more than the confirmation that there _was_, indeed, an object of his unrequited affections. Delly Cartwright turned crimson when asked and only managed to nod and shake her head in response to the flood of questions: _yes_, there was a girl in Twelve that Peeta was in love with; _yes_, he had known her for a long time; _no_, Delly didn't think the girl knew he liked her. Marko gave a sad chuckle when asked about the girl but didn't elaborate; the baker smiled grimly – the Games were particularly rough on him – and said, no doubt, we'd all find out when Peeta came home.

Only we didn't. Peeta won the Games and returned to Twelve, and once they finished parading him around for the cameras, he disappeared out to his Victor's Residence, only emerging for the Victory Tour and Harvest Festival and the occasional trip to town to collect supplies or a special delivery from the train station. He was as friendly as always and took time for anyone who wanted to speak to him, but he didn't openly seek out any girl or her attentions.

There are a few theories making the rounds in the district, the first – and most popular – being that he simply outgrew the girl after the Games. The boys at school joke coarsely about what Peeta might've seen and done in the Capitol; I blush and ignore them but am forced to admit, at the very least, he'll have encountered substantial beauty. Lavinia is a testament to that. She's prettier than any woman in Twelve, hands down, and she's his _servant_.

The second theory, and the saddest, is that Peeta _did_ ask, quietly, and the girl turned him down. He might be a wealthy Victor, but he's missing half of his right leg. I don't see how that matters two pins, especially in such a fit, good-looking young man, but apparently some girls find the idea off-putting, and a few crude – and, in my opinion, cruel – jokes have been made in regard to his missing leg affecting his "performance" in the bedroom. I can't imagine that being a significant reason for a girl to turn him down, but if it was, I'm happy. Peeta deserves better than a wife repulsed by his body.

The third theory – and the one I put the most stock in, particularly after seeing this place – is that he wanted to make everything perfect for his girl before he proposed. He came back to the district with a cane; I caught a glimpse of him leaning heavily on it once – the powerful young man who killed a bear three times his size, reduced to a lean, hobbling cripple – and it almost broke my heart. He had to learn to walk without the cane, to move differently, before he could even think of pursuing a girl.

And, of course, he had to prepare his new home for her; outfit it with luxury and every comfort, as he most assuredly has. _Feathering his nest, that one,_ Greasy Sae told me with a sly wink, one Saturday in September, while the girls around her whispered about the crate of dishes Peeta had collected from the train station that morning. _It'll be lady's underthings next, _she said._ Mark my words._

I closed my ears to the gossip after that.

I wonder now if I'm meant to be the final piece of his plan. A maid for Peeta's bride-to-be. Surely, he has everything else in place.

"I've made you something," he says.

"I'm sorry!" I blurt in reply. "I-I lost track of time."

"You're on your own time now, Katniss," he says gently. "And you looked like you were having fun."

My blush returns and deepens. I wonder how much he saw.

"I saw you eating the snow," he says with a laugh, justifying my blush. "I had to taste it too, when I first got out here. It's so clean, almost sweet – which gives me an idea, actually." He grins. "Something Dad told me they used to do, back in the day, when you could still find clean snow in town. I think I'll save it for tomorrow, though," he says, his bright eyes glinting with mischief. "I have other ideas for tonight.

"Anyway, I just came out to say I've made you something to eat," he explains, "whenever you're ready, I mean. It's just cooling – and it'll keep – so stay out as long as you like."

I can smell it on him: butter – salty, creamy butter – and flour and sugar; something baked and rich. I didn't realize I was hungry again, but that faint whiff of _bakery_ on him makes me abruptly ravenous. "I'm ready now," I tell him, and it's not a lie. I've wasted half the day in leisurely dining and playing in the snow; it's time and past for me to learn my chores. "I'll come in with you."

He takes me back to the living room where two mugs; a handsome teapot, enameled with a pine branch and pinecones; and a plate heaped with golden rectangular cookies wait on the low table in front of the sofa. Like last night, my slippers – well, Lavinia's slippers – are warming on the hearthstone.

Peeta removes his bearskin then helps me out of my outerwear, settles me on the sofa, and eases off my boots. My fingers are icicles after so much time in the snow, and I wonder if he's going to massage the blood back into them, like he did last night. I'm astonished by how much I want him to. I'm astonished by how disappointed I am when he doesn't.

He touches my hands, of course; squeezing them a little, chafing them briskly between his palms as he crouches in front of me. I curl my fingers in the cradle of his hands, trying to capture his heat in my fists, but it's not the same at all. I want his lingering touch again, his warm breath on my skin, so fiercely that, before I know what I'm doing, one stockinged foot brushes impatiently against his thigh.

Peeta gasps raggedly and looks up at me. I avoid his eyes, my face and chest – quite possibly my entire body – burning with blushes. "Katniss, a-are you-?" he rasps, only to break off mid-sentence. When I don't answer, he tilts his head to catch my eyes. "Do you…um…" He's blushing now, furiously, all the way to the roots of his hair. "Do you want me to rub your feet again?" he asks.

I stare at the fireplace, contemplating my reply. If I say yes, it's like admitting a weakness – yet _another_ one – but clearly, Peeta already _knows_. In less than a day he's proven how very _well_ he knows – or, at least, understands – me, and we're both so painfully embarrassed right now that a refusal – proceeding as though nothing had happened – would be excruciating.

"Yes," I whisper to the flames.

Peeta eases his fingertips inside the cuff of my right sock and carefully tugs it down, peeling the thick, knobby wool off my foot. I melt back into the sofa with a sigh, my blush fading – but not the heat that accompanied it – as I press my bare foot into his warm hand. My eyes drift closed, but I feel him smile as he folds both hands around my foot and massages it thoroughly, ankle to toes, paying special attention to the arch – the spot that made me moan last night. I bite back any such exclamations this time, though; I'm sure Peeta finds me ridiculous enough without the sounds.

When he's finished with that foot, he rests it on his thigh and slips the sock off my other foot to begin its massage. I wonder how it would feel to have his hands just a little higher, those strong warm fingers kneading my calf muscles –

"How was skating?" Peeta murmurs. His voice is low and a little shaky.

"Good – oh!" I exclaim, sitting up as I recall my foolishness. "I left the skates in the stable."

"Pollux will bring them back," he assures me, his thumb tracing the contour of my arch in slow, firm strokes. I push back against the gentle pressure of his touch, pinching my lips together to hold back a groan; it feels _that_ good. "After all, he owes you for trouncing him in that snowball fight," he teases.

"You saw that?" I ask, more than a little embarrassed. I behaved like a child for most of the morning, but engaging in a snowball fight with another servant – when both of us clearly had other things to do – must merit a reprimand, even from Peeta.

"Mmm," he sighs. "You were magnificent." He dips his head, lifting my foot a little, and presses his lips to the arch.

I nearly fly off the sofa – and probably would, were it not for his big hands wrapped around my foot, gently anchoring me to the seat. To _him_. His lips are warm and soft and slightly parted; brief as their touch is, they leave a whisper of moisture on my skin.

Peeta Mellark just kissed my foot. And not the top of it, either: the arch, the part I walk on. "What was that for?" I gasp.

"I told you," he says, smiling, though his cheeks are a fiery shade of red once more. "You're magnificent."

He quickly bends and kisses the arch of my other foot, as though afraid I'll stop him, then he straightens and reaches for the slippers on the hearthstone. But I'm not ready for them yet. My bare feet are humming with sensation, with the feel of Peeta's hands and lips; to cover them now would be constrictive, almost painful.

"I'm all right for the moment," I tell him, stilling his hand on the slippers. My right foot is still resting on his thigh, savoring the rough texture of his trousers and the heat of his body beneath. I'm astonished by how badly I want to rub my foot against him, just a little, to feel the friction of the material against my sensitized skin. "Anyway, Lavinia probably wants her slippers back," I add hurriedly, avoiding his eyes.

"Katniss."

I look up reluctantly; he's smiling, but the color in his cheeks is still high. "They're not Lavinia's," he says lightly.

I wonder how I've managed to be so dense. I don't understand Peeta's generosity, not at all, but a boy who had a coat custom-made for me in the Capitol, with his own white bear's fur and embroidered katniss flowers, would hardly loan me his housekeeper's slippers. I don't know when he bought them or why, but they're exactly like the other things he's given me. The clothes, my hat and scarf; my bedroom, even: all soft, warm, and woodsy.

"Thank you," I tell him. It's inadequate and about half a day too late, but I'm overcome with the need to say _something_.

"You must be hungry," he says. He gently lowers my foot to the floor, then shifts up from his crouch to sit on the edge of the low table. "I've made you my granddad's famous shortbread." He hands me the plate with a grin. "And tea; have all you like."

I know about Mellark's shortbread – Merchant kids sometimes buy it on the way to school and devour it, piping hot, from paper wraps that positively radiate butter – but I've never been able to afford it. I've never even bought a piece for Prim; it was that big of a luxury.

I bite into one of the warm golden cookies and groan; it's dense and rich and crumbles on my tongue. I'm a relative stranger to butter, but it seems to me that if you added just enough flour to give it substance in the oven, that's what this would be. A cookie _made_ of butter. My lips and fingers are deliciously oily just from touching it.

"Oh, this is good," I sigh, reaching for a second piece. I narrowly manage not to shove it into my mouth.

"Thank you," Peeta says, almost shyly, as he fills my mug with tea. "It's so simple – just butter, flour, sugar, and a pinch of salt – that I sort of hate taking credit for it."

He blows lightly on the mug before offering me the handle; I take a cautious sip and sigh again. It's a superb tea – malty but not bitter, with a startling, bright note of strawberry – perfectly paired with the shortbread.

"Do you want milk or sugar?" he offers, filling the second mug for himself. "This kind is really good as it is, but – "

"It's perfect," I assure him. I've used the word a lot today, more than I ever have in my life before, and yet it's not an exaggeration. Everything I've seen – everything Peeta's given me – has been absolutely _perfect_. Faultless. Impossible to make better. "Aren't you going to have some too?" I ask, holding out the plate.

"If you insist," he replies, smiling. He takes a piece of shortbread and eats it thoughtfully while I bolt down my third and fourth pieces, interspersed with plenty of hot tea. I don't know how I can still be hungry after that huge breakfast, but with the shortbread in front of me, it's like I haven't eaten in days.

"This isn't very substantial," Peeta says suddenly. "I'm sorry."

I realize he's not speaking for himself; he's been watching me inhale the shortbread. I sheepishly force myself to chew the bite in my mouth five more times before swallowing it.

"Would you like something else?" he asks.

"No, thank you," I assure him. "I'm fine."

He's clearly unconvinced. "A boiled egg?" he persists. "Some cheese?"

Both of those sound amazing right now, but Peeta's not here to cook for me; to cater to my stomach's whims. The shortbread and tea were more than enough. "N-No…" I say, but I can feel my resolve weakening.

"Bread?"

My resolve is gone altogether. I stare back at him with wide, hopeful eyes. _Dammit._

Peeta grins. "Bread it is," he says. He disappears in the direction of the kitchen – I manage _not_ to eat the rest of the shortbread in the few minutes that he's gone – and returns with a tray containing half of one of the loaves he made this morning and a dish of butter, plus thick slices of cheese, apple, and cold sausage. I want to snap at him, but I really _am_hungry; I can't hide my eagerness at the sight of so much food.

He sits on the edge of the low table again and, as he did this morning, serves me a feast. As he did last night with the apple, he silently cuts slices of the bread – his own good bread; soft, golden-crusted Mellark Bakery bread – slathers them with butter, and hands them to me, topped with a piece of sweet, savory sausage or the pleasantly sharp yellow cheese. Sometimes he pairs the cheese with a piece of tart pink apple. He doesn't rush but patiently waits for me to finish, or nearly finish, whatever he gave me before preparing the next serving. I'm reminded again of how uncannily he seems to know me: whatever combination he hands me is, somehow, exactly what I'm craving in that bite.

"It's heartbreaking, watching you eat," he says softly.

I look up at him, frowning. I wonder if he could be mocking me – my manners or voracious appetite – but there's a strange sort of pain in his eyes. "You have this look of wonder at even the most ordinary things," he explains, "and, at the same time, disbelief."

He brushes my cheek with a fingertip and I shiver. Not from fear or discomfort; my skin tingles where he touched it, so very gently. "I swear to you, Katniss," he says, "For the rest of your life, you will always have enough to eat."

The words are quiet but intense, like last night in the sleigh, when he promised to mentor me in the Games, if it came to that. When he promised he wouldn't let me die. "More than enough," he corrects himself, perhaps recalling how very little _enough_ might be to someone like me, then, "Too much." A small smile teases up the corners of his mouth, and I know he's recalling my words from this morning. "Too much of _everything_ for the rest of your life, Katniss," he vows. "I promise."

Something about this declaration steals my breath away. I suppose a cold and hungry worker is no good to him, but such overwhelming generosity – the rich food and fine clothes, when plain of both would have sufficed – is wholly unexpected; unnecessary, really, even if he _can_ afford it. And yet, a small, secret part of me takes comfort in his promise. Even if, as I suspect, Peeta's exaggerating somewhat, I'll have warm clothes and plenty of food for the rest of my life. My eyes burn a little at the thought, and I twist my lips to hold back a small sob. I agreed to this bargain to help Mom and Prim. It never occurred to me, despite what Peeta said that night about me being _well taken care of_ and having _the very best_, that _I_ might get food and clothes and a warm home too.

When I've eaten all I can possibly stomach, Peeta cuts one final slice of bread and folds it in half, making himself a sandwich with the last of the sausage and cheese. After his careful, patient feeding of me, it's an endearingly childish gesture, and I wonder if he's been ignoring his own hunger all this time while ensuring I had plenty. He takes a few bites, washing them down with tea, then asks cheerfully, "Are you ready for your tour?"

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**Author's Note:** Come visit me on Tumblr for news, fangirling, fic research geekery, and the occasional teaser. I live at porchwood dot tumblr dot com, and I also just started a recs blog, everlarkescapism dot tumblr dot com. (If you like my fics, you'll love my recs! ;D)

Last but not least: I'm coauthoring a fic with the lovely DandelionSunset called **The Sleep of Paradise** (an Everlark retelling of _The Blue Lagoon_)! It's not live on FFnet or AO3 yet, but there are some teasers on my Tumblr, and news about how/when/where it will be posted will show up there first. :D


	8. A Never-Ending Feast (Part Two)

**Author's Note:** Well, _that_ came together quicker than I expected. ;D

Eternal thanks to **DandelionSunset** for reading (and re-reading!) and providing feedback at every excruciating stage. (This chapter - originally, the second half of Chapter Seven - was an egg that _did not_ want to hatch). Thanks also to **sponsormusings**and **annieoakley1** for providing feedback on some early drafts.

If you haven't eaten recently, you may want to grab a snack before you proceed. These two chapters are called "A Never-Ending Feast" for a reason. ;D

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**Chapter Eight: A Never-Ending Feast (Part Two)**

_Then [the bear] said, "This house and all that is here belongs to you."  
_~_The Three Gold Nuts, _retold by Mrs. Dicy Adams, collected by James Taylor Adams

We return to the kitchen and set our dishes on the table, then, with a quick grin back at me, Peeta opens a door in the wall to the left of the massive icebox. I expect a pantry – a small closet filled with dry goods – and then he flips the light switch.

It's a separate room, at least one-fourth the size of the kitchen, _entirely filled with food_. Barrels, waist high and broad enough that I could fit inside them, line the walls; above them are three rows of shelves filled with canisters and jars and tins and bottles in an stunning array of sizes and colors. A few of the shelves hold shallow crates; I spy potatoes and squash and apples between the slats.

It's like the grocer's and the sweet-shop rolled into one. My jaw falls slack. A room filled with money or jewels couldn't have impressed me more.

"This, of course, is the pantry," Peeta tells me, his smile broadening.

Some of the barrels, he explains, hold flour – several different varieties, though I'm most impressed by the silky white kind that is the bakery's stock in trade – and the others, dried beans and grains. My mouth waters at the sight of an entire barrel of thick oats, and my eyes sting with tears when Peeta gently holds my hand over yet another barrel and pours a stream of tiny red lentils over my palm.

The final two barrels hold sugar, brown and white, and on the shelf above them are large canisters of two additional sugars: coarse light brown crystals and fine white powder, as smooth as the bakery flour. Beside them are jugs of oil and vinegar, a few tins of molasses, and several jars of honey. Honey I know well, having harvested it myself a time or two, but there are half a dozen varieties here, ranging from pale gold to dark amber. Peeta opens the palest and offers it to me; the aroma is staggeringly floral, like the Meadow at high summer.

I bring the lid to my mouth before I realize what I'm doing and catch myself just short of licking the sticky patch of gold. I'm mortified, but Peeta only chuckles softly and nods encouragement. Emboldened, I sweep a fingertip across the lid, coating it with the fragrant honey, and pop it into my mouth. It tastes like summer, like the purple clover blossoms that I eat like candy, and I sigh with pleasure.

Adjacent to the honey shelf are tins of coffee and tea, a few of them beautifully enameled. I think of the delicious strawberry note in the tea Peeta served with the shortbread and wonder about the flavors of the rest. I wonder if he makes coffee like his father, adding nuts and spices to the beans before grinding them.

There are dozens of jars of fruit; some dried, some in syrup, still others condensed into jewel-bright jams and preserves. A single jam jar would be worth a small fortune in the Seam and would be rationed to last a family like mine at least six months. Most of these bear the simple brown-and-white label of products sold at the grocer's, though a few sport a more colorful, elaborate label that must hearken from the Capitol, and others merely have a date and description handwritten on the lid. Could Peeta have made those himself? I can't imagine having enough fruit, let alone the ridiculous amounts of sugar required. I pick up one – a pint jar of beautifully seedy raspberry jam, dated from September – and he smiles. "The house came with a decent garden," he tells me. "A little overgrown, but well worth the trouble."

Next are jars of nuts and seeds and creamy golden brown spreads, most of them Capitol-labeled, that Peeta identifies as nut butters. Beside these are many smaller jars of herbs and spices, like the three Peeta had out last night for the hot chocolate, and a line of tiny dark bottles that he identifies as extracts. We've never had the luxury of those in our cupboard, but I think Mom used to make them when she worked at the apothecary. Peeta uncaps the one marked _Vanilla_ and proffers it for a sniff that makes my eyes glaze over. This heady scent is common at the bakery; I've noticed it on my trading visits but was never able to pinpoint exactly what it was. I wonder how Peeta – how _any_ of his family – can bear working around such a cripplingly delicious smell, day in and day out.

There are larger bottles above these; tall, slender, and Capitol-labeled, filled with liquids in every imaginable shade of red and gold. "Wines and liqueurs," Peeta explains, gesturing at a bottle the color of a Merchant girl's blushes. "For cooking."

I raise my brows. Few people can afford to get drunk in Twelve, but the most prominent of those is Haymitch Abernathy, our district's only other living Victor and Peeta's mentor from the Games. A crass, filthy man, whose winnings appear to have gone solely toward the purchase of veritable lakes of foul white liquor.

Peeta laughs. "I have no intention of turning into another Haymitch," he assures me. "There are far better ways to spend a fortune and remain clear-headed enough to enjoy it."

I smile, thinking of what he's spent his money on already. Beautiful winter coats and boots for two Seam girls. A house filled with warmth and food and light. A pony and sleigh. Ice skates and peppermints. There's no danger of this boy turning into another Haymitch.

Beside the extracts is something else I recognize from last night: the large ceramic canister of powdered chocolate. _Milk_, it's labeled, oddly enough, and it stands alongside two others, one marked _Dark_ and the other _White_. I imagine those must be more sugars – whoever heard of chocolate being white? – and then Peeta takes a large rectangular tin off the shelf beside the canisters and opens it, turning back layers of frosted paper to reveal large chunks of something smooth and cream-colored, almost yellow, with a heady fragrance that reminds me of the vanilla extract. "You have to try this," he says eagerly, handing me a piece the size of my thumb.

I take a tentative bite and moan. It's creamy – buttery, almost – and very sweet, melting in the heat of my mouth. It _feels_ like that bite of chocolate Prim and I shared two years ago, but it doesn't taste like it. It tastes exactly like the vanilla extract smells, and my knees wobble a little at the unexpected bliss.

"Good?" Peeta teases, his cheeks slightly pink.

I nod in reply, wondering how he can live around such foods and not devour the entire container in a single sitting.

"White chocolate," he tells me, carefully rewrapping the chunks and putting the tin away. I try not to look too regretful. "I have dark and milk chocolate too, of course, ground and block." He gestures at the equally large tins alongside the one he just returned to the shelf, and I try to imagine _more chocolate_. Tins _full_ of chocolate.

Peeta chuckles, and I wonder if he knows, yet again, what I'm thinking. "I use the ground milk chocolate for drinking," he explains, "and the rest mostly for baking, but you're welcome to any of it, as much as you want. Anytime."

I turn to him, gaping. Merchant kids probably have a chocolate or two every night after school, but for the likes of me, chocolate is as precious and rare as pearls. This is ridiculously generous, even for Peeta.

He takes my hands in his, and though he flushes a little, his face is solemn and somber. "Everything in this house belongs to you, Katniss," he says softly, and it's the vow-like tone from the sleigh and the fireside. "Anything you see is yours for the asking."

I shiver a little under the gaze of those bright blue eyes, my small hands folded into his warm grasp. I don't believe him, of course. I don't think he's lying; I just know he doesn't mean it. Not literally. _My_ stove and fireplaces and pantry overflowing with food? Hardly. It's just a phrase by way of welcome: _My house is your house_, as some of the oldest Seam residents say. They don't _mean_it, of course; you don't come to stay with someone and own their house and everything in it. Not in the Seam, and definitely not in a Victor's Residence.

"Um…thank you," I say. It's inadequate, probably, but I can't think how else to answer a promise that isn't exactly a promise. "You're too generous to me."

He releases my hands and looks away for a moment, and I feel like I've disappointed him somehow. I suppose it's time, considering how brusque and ungrateful I was to him yesterday, but why now? I said _thank you_, words that stick in my throat even at the best of times. What more does he want?

He turns back, smiling once more, and I wonder if I might've imagined his disappointment. We move to the final shelf and he tugs forward one of the crates, this one filled almost to its brim with onions, as big as my two clenched fists. I pick one up, cupping it in both hands. It's firm and heavy and beautifully pungent; my mouth waters at the smell. I want to tear off the thin golden skin and bite into it like an apple.

"Onions for supper, then?" Peeta wonders, and I look up to see him smiling gently, almost sadly, at me. What had he said in the living room? _You have this look of wonder at even the most ordinary things, and, at the same time, disbelief._ And in less than a day, he's proven beyond a doubt that he knows what it looks like when I'm longing for something. The apples, the bread and cheese, and now, ridiculously enough, onions. It's disconcerting and, at the same time, strangely comforting. I may not believe what he said about anything and everything in this house being mine, but I know he'll keep me fed.

He takes the onion from my hand, pauses a moment in thought, then tugs forward other crates to retrieve two cloves of garlic, a handful of small red-skinned potatoes, and a sunny orange pumpkin, about three times the size of the squash I split with the Hawthornes yesterday. He juggles them in his strong arms, tucking the onion into the crook of his elbow, and reaches down a tin of molasses. "Would you mind grabbing the white pepper and rosemary?" he asks, gesturing at the spice shelf with his shoulder.

"_White_ pepper?" I reply, with as much confusion as if he'd asked for a blue onion.

Peeta smiles gently. "It's milder," he explains. "They used it once in a cream soup in the Capitol, or I wouldn't have known about it either."

The spice jars are arranged alphabetically, and both rosemary and white pepper are easy to locate. I eye the pepper suspiciously: it's finely powdered and a sort of pale, sandy brown – not white – in color; absolutely nothing like the coarsely ground black pepper sold by the grocer, nor the shriveled earthy peppercorns in the little grinder on the breakfast table. But Peeta obviously knows what he's doing, so I shrug and follow him out of the pantry, spice jars in hand.

We deposit our foodstuffs on the table and Peeta turns to open one side of the enormous icebox. If the pantry had been breathtaking, this is almost incomprehensible.

There are long blocks of butter and a rainbow of cheeses wrapped in waxed paper, two dozen brown eggs in cartons, eight stout bottles of milk and five smaller bottles that must be cream. Beside the bottles is a glass pitcher of something cloudy and orange, and as I try to identify it, Peeta steps back to a cupboard to get a small glass and fills it with the contents of the pitcher, which of course he hands to me. "Orange juice," he says. "It's delicious."

I've only had one orange in my entire life: a New Year's treat from Dad, many years ago, and one tentative sip of the juice – it's sweet and pulpy and tastes like sunshine – brings every last bit of that memory flooding back. I finish the rest in three greedy swallows; the juice is refreshingly acidic after all the rich food I've had today. "Delicious," I echo, blushing a little at my manners – and blushing deeper still when Peeta pours me another half-glass.

"I made it this morning," he tells me, smiling. "I always have a few oranges on hand, but I'll keep more around now, since I know you like it."

I can't imagine _always having a few oranges on hand_, let alone _more_ than a few, when just a moment ago, a single orange was a once-in-a-lifetime treat. I'd thank Peeta, but I'm blushing so hard that my face hurts, and I hide behind the glass as I finish the second serving in small sips.

On the bottom shelf of the icebox is a whole chicken on a platter, ready for cooking, and several paper parcels from the butcher's, marked with Rooba's illegible scrawl. A whole shelf full of fresh butcher meat. My mouth waters, even as I fill it with orange juice. I think of the sweet herb-rich sausages Peeta fried this morning and the cold savory sausage he fed me just minutes ago, along with the bread and cheese and apple. I can scarcely imagine what sorts of wonders lie within those mysterious butcher-shop parcels.

He closes that side of the icebox and I feel a little sad, as though I'd hoped to stand and simply stare at all that food for an hour or more, and then he opens the other side and I'm too stunned to leave room for any other emotion. The other side is a meat freezer, holding parcels upon parcels wrapped in butcher paper. These are more clearly labeled, and dated, in handwriting that must be Peeta's. I note beef roasts and chicken and bacon and yet _more _sausage – even a whole ham – but, unsurprisingly, no horse. I can't imagine gentle Peeta ever eating horse meat, even before he owned Rye.

"It's a little excessive, I know," Peeta says, closing the freezer door, and his face is as flushed as mine must have been a moment ago. "But, well…we're pretty remote out here, and we could get snowed in at any time, so I wanted to have plenty of food on hand. And…I didn't know what you like," he adds with a shy smile.

"Anything," I tell him without hesitation. "Everything."

He laughs. "We'll try to narrow that down in the next week or so," he says. "I don't mind stocking lots of different foods, but I want them to be things that _you_ want; that you _enjoy_. If I make something you don't like, or you want something I haven't made, just say so, okay?"

I stare at him strangely, reminded again of how backward this is. Peeta is my host – my employer, really – but he's talking like I'm mistress of the house and he's my cook. "Um…if that's what you want," I answer. After all, maybe he meant that as an order. He hasn't told me to do anything yet, except to pick up two spice bottles and play in the snow.

He leads me next into the adjacent dining room, about half the size of the kitchen but just as cozy, with its own fireplace, a handsome oak table with six chairs, and off to one side, a long dresser-like piece of furniture, matching the table and chairs, with shallow drawers at the top and wide cupboards below. Madge's family has one in their formal dining room; she told me they use it for storing kitchen linens and serving meals sometimes. I think it's called a sideboard.

The dining room is on the southeast corner of the house, with walls the color of the sweet-shop's toffee buttons and the same brown stone flooring as the kitchen. I bet it's a wonderful place at lunchtime, especially in the summer. The windows are curtained at present with sheer brown drapes, but in summer the curtains would be tied back and the windows wide open, filling the room with a balmy breeze of cool water and sun-baked clover, green grass and dandelions and warm pine sap. I imagine sitting in one of those chairs on a summer day, knees pulled up to my chin, eating cold sausage and cheese with Peeta.

"It's just me at mealtimes, or has been, up till now," Peeta explains. "Pollux and Lavinia like to eat on their own. I usually just eat in the kitchen, but I'd love to give the dining room a try, now that you're here. Maybe for supper?"

I picture this snug nest of a room by firelight and try to imagine what sort of supper Peeta would prepare and serve here, with a pumpkin, an onion, and molasses. "That sounds perfect," I say.

From there we pass through the back entry of the house: a mudroom, with a low bench and little niches for our coats and boots and other outdoor gear. Dad's worn hunting jacket hangs in the niche next to Peeta's bearskin, as though it belongs there, and the sight of it makes something warm and strange tingle in my stomach.

My beautiful new coat hangs here too, the red wool and white fur vibrant even in shadow, and there are a few other coats I can't identify – Pollux and Lavinia's, no doubt. There are empty niches too; smaller ones, lower down, and I suppose they're for Peeta's children to use. I imagine tiny versions of my coat and Prim's in those niches: fur-lined, of course, and brightly colored, paired with jaunty little mittens and stocking caps and small fleecy boots. I picture a child bundled in such clothes, red-cheeked and giggling, with blond curls peeping out from under his stocking cap, and his handsome father, wrapped in white fur, lifting him with a laugh to wind a scarf around a snowman's neck. Once more I feel a peculiar low ache, almost a hollowness, in my belly. Not my stomach, but lower – where I would carry a child.

Confused, I try to shake away the feeling as I follow Peeta down the hallway that runs behind the living room. There's a small bathroom just off the mudroom, oddly unembellished in comparison to the rest of the house. It holds a toilet and sink and one narrow window, and the walls are painted a soft pale green. Peeta explains that this is sort of a "utility" bathroom; any of us can use it, but it's ideal for when he's working in the kitchen or outside and doesn't want to track a mess upstairs, and he's accordingly left it rather plain. I don't tell him it's a palace compared to our crude little bathroom in the Seam.

The next room is larger but slightly cramped, with two massive square appliances, a small sink, an ironing board, and a row of cupboards on the wall above. We find Lavinia there, wearing a dress of dark green plaid today, with her stunning hair rolled up and pinned in a neat crescent along the back of her head. She smiles in greeting as she folds Madge's sweater on top of what I vaguely recognize – from Madge's house, of course – as a clothes dryer. We'd been on our way to her house for a study session once and been caught in the rain, and Madge had tossed my sweater into the strange, oven-like appliance for a few minutes, only to bring it out warm and dry, almost by magic. I chuckle a little at the memory.

"Lavinia takes care of the laundry," Peeta tells me, giving her a cheerful nod, and I begin to wonder exactly what sort of chores they've saved for me. "She knows her way around this better than I do, even after years of washing bakery linens, but if you're worried and want to wash some of your personal things yourself, she can show you where everything is and how to use it."

I look at the small pile of garments on top of the dryer and realize that she washed my clothes – Madge's sweater and shirt and leggings – from the journey yesterday. Is Lavinia so idle – and Peeta so wealthy – that they launder clothing after just one wearing? Or am I only meant to wear the clothes Peeta bought me now, and she washed Madge's things so they can be returned?

We continue down to the door at the end of the hallway. Peeta hesitates before opening it and doesn't go inside, and I hang back as well, peering curiously around him. It looks like an ordinary living room, maybe a little on the small side, with a sofa and television and a telephone on an end table. And then I feel it, creeping over my skin like an unexpected chill and raising the hairs on the back of my neck: the Capitol presence, the whisper of the Games, absent in every other room of this warm, wholesome house.

"This is the room I have to have," Peeta whispers.

I understand now. The television and the phone. He has to have both, and he keeps them all but locked away in the darkest, coldest corner of his house. If the small bathroom was unembellished, the Capitol room, as I realize I'll think of it now, is stark, lifeless, and abandoned. The sofa would not be out of place in a nicer Seam house. The walls are a dull shade of gray, and everything is slightly dusty.

"Lavinia doesn't come in here at all," he says quietly. "I promised her that from the beginning."

Dread closes around my throat like an icy fist. "Peeta, tell me about Avoxes," I whisper.

"Not here," he whispers back.

He closes the door to the Capitol room and pulls it fast, then leads me back down the hallway. After a moment's contemplation, he opens the back door and goes out to sit on the steps; I follow and sit as near to him as possible. I've gathered he doesn't want to be overheard, and we're both coatless; it's no bad thing to try and share a little of our body heat.

"The Capitol calls them traitors," he says, almost inaudibly, and I lean closer so as not to miss a single word. "Maybe they openly defied the wrong person. Maybe their parents didn't put enough money on the Games. Maybe they didn't watch the recaps. I don't know exactly what happened with Pollux, but Lavinia and her boyfriend tried to run away from the Capitol. To get away from the shallowness and cruelty, to start a new life, someplace quiet and simple and safe. They were caught just outside of Twelve."

I cease to breathe. "W-what happened?" I choke.

Peeta clears his throat. "Peacekeepers killed her boyfriend and brought her back to the Capitol to become an Avox."

"Which is _what_, exactly?" I ask, shivering violently from both the cold and the anticipated horror.

Peeta slips an arm around my shoulders and pulls me to his side. I feel the delicious warmth of his body, even through his sweater, and realize he's trembling a little too. I wonder if he's holding me for his own comfort as much as mine.

"They cut out her tongue," he whispers, and his face is so close to mine that I feel his breath on my cheek. "Cut out her tongue and made her a slave in the place she hated so much that she'd rather have died than stay another day."

I whimper and bring a hand to my mouth. I'm well aware of the horrors that the Capitol proudly inflicts in the Games every year, and the punishments that Peacekeepers are only too happy to administer in the districts, but _this_…I have no words for this.

Peeta presses his cheek to mine, and it helps a little. "Pollux started in the sewers," he says. "Lavinia was pretty, so they wanted her visible – but not conspicuous. So they had her waiting on Tributes straightaway. Pollux worked underground for almost five years while his brother raised the bribes to get him a position in the Training Center." He pauses, and I feel his mouth twist in a scowl. "Can you imagine a life so awful that waiting on doomed kids would be a treat?" he asks.

I shake my head against his.

"He'd only been there for a year when I got Reaped," he says, "and we hit it off right away. I asked him for pen and paper so we could communicate more easily, and we ended up passing notes like schoolboys. He's funny," he adds, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

"He is," I agree, thinking of Pollux's laughter and grins and the snowball fight he started, and try to imagine that merry, robust man, mutilated and working in foul darkness for _five years_. I wonder if his "crime" was really so heinous in the Capitol's eyes, or if they'd simply ruled him not beautiful enough to wait on Tributes.

"I liked Lavinia too," Peeta says. "She was so good and gentle with Larkspur, and…it was just so _wrong_. Whatever she did – it didn't merit _that_."

His breath is speeding up, growing shallow; he's getting angry. I draw back a little to look into his eyes, willing him to stay calm and quiet. We may be as far away from the Capitol as you can get, but he's already said things they could kill him for, Victor or no.

"When I asked if I could take them back to Twelve, people looked at me like I'd asked to take home the trash," he says, his voice hard and furious. "'You don't want _them_, Peeta; hire yourself some strapping locals when you get home.' But I insisted; offered money I didn't have yet, under the pretense of buying them as slaves. I hadn't even asked Pollux and Lavinia if they were willing to come," he recalls. "I didn't want to get their hopes up if I couldn't make it happen."

"But you _did_," I remind him soothingly. Something about angry Peeta – righteously angry Peeta, standing up to Capitol injustice and being mocked for it – makes my heart hurt.

"For a nominal fee," he answers dryly. "Far less than what I initially offered. I think they were all laughing at me behind their hands: the stupid sentimental Victor who wanted to take home a couple of mute slaves."

"And Pollux and Lavinia agreed?" I ask.

"In a heartbeat," he says, and his mouth softens into a sad smile. "Pollux hugged me. Lavinia cried."

Once again, Peeta's sheer _goodness_ astonishes me. Taking a Capitol slave – a Capitol "traitor" – to an outlying district is surely on a level with what he did for me. Hiring a citizen of Reaping age and taking her out of the district, fighting to get her out of the Reaping or at least to reduce her tesserae… I want to tell him how amazing he is, how unbelievably good and kind and generous, but the words freeze in my throat, and before I can free them he's helping me to my feet.

"Come on," he says brightly, "You haven't seen the upstairs yet." He picks up the thread of our previous conversation, cheerful and enthusiastic once more, as though there had been no break in our tour. And I realize: that's probably what he wants the Capitol transmitters – the inevitable "bugs" hidden throughout the house that, up till now, I'd forgotten about – to pick up. A short silence, as though we stepped outside for a few minutes, then a return to the tour.

We go upstairs, and I expect Peeta to show me the rooms opposite mine, but instead he opens a small door at the end of the hallway to reveal yet another flight of stairs. "Lavinia lives up here," he explains, ducking his head a little and leading the way.

The attic is not unlike Pollux's loft above the stable, albeit a shade warmer and more elegantly furnished. It's essentially one long room, with a pretty bed in one corner, bookshelves and a small sofa in another, and a little kitchen in the next, complete with a sink and stove and cupboards, even a small table and chairs. The fourth corner is enclosed to contain a bathroom, far more like the one off the mudroom than the one attached to my bedroom. Simple and efficient, it has a toilet, sink, and shower, and white walls scattered with colorful wildflowers.

"Lavinia spends most of her time up here," Peeta explains. "I always offer her and Pollux a portion at mealtime and a place at the table; sometimes they take the food, but they always go back to their own rooms to eat it." He doesn't say what we both have surmised: how difficult – uncomfortable, even embarrassing – it must be to eat without a tongue. "Pollux has a bathroom in the loft but no shower, so he comes up a couple times a week to use Lavinia's. If it gets too cold above the stables, he'll stay the night up here too."

Though these would be luxurious accommodations for a Merchant girl, they pale in comparison to the bedroom and bathroom allotted for my use, and I can't help wondering why Peeta is giving me so much more than his other servants when their living quarters would have more than sufficed for someone like me. I would easily and happily share Lavinia's attic; I could sleep on the sofa or even share the bed. But I bite my tongue and follow him back down to the level where my room is.

The first door on the opposite side of the hallway holds a guest bedroom, done up in shades of honey and russet brown. It's nice enough but feels unfinished, somehow, as though Peeta hasn't quite assigned its purpose yet. I wonder if it's meant to be the nursery for his children.

When we get to the next door Peeta pauses for a moment, and I worry that this room has something to do with the Capitol as well. It's directly opposite my bedroom door, and the thought of the icy fingers of the Capitol, near enough to drift over my face at night, fills me with horror. But before I can find my voice, Peeta blushes and says, "This is where I spend most of my time," and pushes the door open.

It's…an art room. I've never seen one before; I didn't even know such places existed, but it's impossible not to piece together, based on the content of the room. The walls are dappled with green and brown and gold, like summer sunlight filtered through leaves, and the carpet is a lush, meadow-grass green. On one side of the room is a narrow table, with three feet of work surface cleared at its center and areas to either side designated for charcoal and parchment and brushes and paints. Squeeze-tubes, shallow pots, dark bottles with brightly colored drips at their necks; more kinds and colors of paint than I ever could've imagined. At the center of the room is a stool and an easel holding a blank canvas; clearly, just waiting for Peeta's brush. There's an armchair as well, currently occupied by a handful of charcoal sketches. The topmost is of a small figure in a hooded coat, skating on the lake…_me?_

The only pictures on display are charcoal sketches of katniss plants, rendered over and over again in painstaking detail and tacked up above the work table. Most focus on the tiny three-petaled flowers, but several are devoted to the broad arrowhead-shaped leaves, the slender spikes, even the tubers. Those aren't pretty in the least – they look more like funny little brown onions than anything else – and while Peeta's captured them in almost mouthwatering detail, he's done nothing to beautify them. And yet, there's something startlingly lovely about katniss tubers drawn by his hand.

Dad would have loved these sketches – been in awe of them, really, just as I am now. He loved katniss; it was his favorite plant. The tubers kept him and his mother alive the summer that his father's heart gave out in the mines. Grandma Everdeen was young and strong; she hunted beside her husband every Sunday and gave birth to Dad, all on her own, after bringing down a deer on what had been intended as a quiet foraging trip into the woods. But she was pregnant with her second child when my grandfather died, and the shock of losing her husband made the baby come early. It was a tricky birthing; the baby – Dad's sister – died, and my grandmother was ill for a long time afterward.

Dad was eight at the time; years too young to take tesserae, too small to draw even his mother's lightweight bow, and still enough of a child to be horrified by butchering game, despite his deft hand for snares. But he was a skilled forager and, more importantly, knew which wild foods would be most sustaining, most worth the effort of gathering. He stuffed the pockets of his overalls with muddy katniss tubers and knotted together a few spikes to make a crown of the little white blossoms to cheer up his mother. They lived for two weeks on little more than that: katniss tubers, a couple of lake perch, fiddleheads, a precious handful of wild strawberries – and the hope woven into a katniss-flower crown.

You'd expect it to be an awful memory: losing half your family at once; having to take care of your hurt and grieving mother, and no one to look after you, but Dad was resilient, even as a child. He loved the woods and adored his mother, and he looked back on that time as an adventure. He recounted it to Prim and I like one of his old tales: a little boy foraging for treasures in a dangerous and fascinating wildwood, rooting out plump tubers worth more than gold.

Then and there, he said, he resolved to have a little girl one day and name her Katniss. _It's everything I wanted my daughter to be, catkin,_ he told me once, with a grin. _Nourishing – life-saving, really – and at home in the water, with an inclination toward arrows and a startling little flash of beauty. _When he grew up and married Mom, however, she was less than enthused by his choice. She was, after all, a Merchant girl, an apothecary's daughter, and she insisted on a prettier name for their child. A flower; an herb, even; _anything _but that strange water weed with the scrawny stems and tiny flowers and muddy, potato-like roots.

But when Mom finally got pregnant, one very wet autumn, she craved nothing so much as katniss tubers. Boiled, roasted, made into stews; her favorite was browned in a pan and tossed with salt and oil and wild garlic. She sent Dad out to the lake every couple of days for more and flew into a panic when the first frost struck. Dad laughed as he told us of ruining his work boots and catching a horrible cold, slogging around the lake in early November to stock their root cellar with katniss tubers so Mom would have them into the winter.

It reminded him of an ancient tale where a pregnant woman craved a special kind of lettuce so badly that she made her husband steal it from the neighbor's garden, and the baby wound up named after it. _I told Alys it was hopeless,_ he said, chuckling, every time I begged him for the story. _You were bound and determined to be Katniss. Katniss kept me alive, so I could grow up to be your papa, and it kept your poor mama happy while she carried you._

I stare at Peeta's exquisite sketches and wonder if he can possibly imagine how much it means to see them here. It's yet another reminder of Dad; of my rustic but happy childhood with him, and to my astonishment, the memory isn't accompanied by pain. "These are amazing," I tell him, smiling. "You've studied this a lot. You must really like katniss."

Peeta's face instantly floods with crimson. "I-I…f-for you," he stammers, looking away. I'd half thought he was unflappable, this calm, golden-tongued young man, but at the moment he's blushing so hotly that my own skin prickles, while pointedly avoiding my eyes. "I wanted to…make you things," he says, very unevenly, toying with a stray piece of charcoal on the work table. "Things…with katniss…for Katniss."

I recall it now, and wonder how in the world I managed to forget, even for a moment. The cluster of blossoms on the sleigh, the wild pond of a bathtub, the embroidery on my coat: katniss leaves and flowers, recreated in the most beautiful, luxurious places. I knew they were intended for me and, likelier than not, made by Peeta's own hand, but I didn't realize what that meant. Peeta's a Merchant boy; he would've had to ask someone – _who?_ – what katniss is, then find it in the lake and study it. I picture him at the work table, sketching intently, surrounded by samples of blossoms and leaves and tubers, and feel a flush of heat on my neck.

_It's just a weed,_ I want to tell him. _An odd little water plant; not worth your time and talent. It isn't very pretty, and the only useful parts are below the surface._ But it's so much more than that. Katniss means life to my family; three generations of us, at least. Those inconspicuous white flowers on their strange spindly spikes have more than once led a starving Everdeen to a sustaining meal.

And it's _me_. Peeta's taken my namesake, mastered every facet of its appearance, and recreated it beautifully as some kind of emblem…for me. The coat I understand, a little – though it's still an unbelievable luxury – but…he's been driving all over the district in a sleigh painted with katniss flowers. Someone – Gale, if no one else – must have recognized that, and I burn with embarrassment for both of us. Peeta was, I suppose, just trying to be nice – making things _with katniss, for Katniss_, though I can't begin to imagine why that should include his sleigh– but people must have seen it as a lover's token.

And if there's one thing I know for certain, it's that Peeta Mellark is not, nor ever could be, in love with me.

"Thank you," I say, drawing Peeta's eyes up from the work table. I seem to be making up for lost time today. It took me five years to thank him for the bread that saved my life, and now I can't seem to stop thanking him. I suppose no other response seems appropriate. I'm not good with words, and every time I turn around, he's offering me some food or a gift or the sort of kindness that knocks the breath from my body.

"I like all the katniss," I add, since it doesn't quite seem clear what I'm thanking him for. "It's…well, not a very pretty plant, but…you've made it into something beautiful."

He shakes his head with a small smile. His face is still deeply flushed. "It's pretty enough," he corrects me. "But I'm not what makes it beautiful."

I don't understand what he means, but something warm and bright flares in my chest.

We leave the room and Peeta opens the next door, the last on this side of the hallway. "This is my room," he says simply, stepping aside to let me go in. "But if you'd rather have the lake view, we can switch."

Somehow, this room is the most startling of all. The large windows face west, where the sun is already creeping toward the horizon, flooding the room with brilliant red-gold light.

The room is something of a twin to mine in layout, only where mine is like a dark forest, all greens and browns and pelts and smelling robustly of pine, his is like a drowsy fall afternoon, full of reds and oranges and smelling of a different aromatic wood – cedar, I realize. Merchant girls keep their wedding dresses in small chests made of it; Mom never had one, but Madge does, for future use. Peeta's bed – narrower than mine and heaped with pale furs, with posters shaped like four slim tree trunks and a canopy of bare branches tangling above – is crafted from the ruddy golden wood, as are his two dressers. Where my walls are many shades of evergreen and textured with pine needles, his are patterned with autumn leaves: maple, birch, and oak, overlapping in vibrant earthy shades of brown and red and orange and yellow, so the actual color of the walls is indecipherable. Like mine, his room is hardwood-floored, but the pelts that serve as his rugs are dark brown, and his fireplace is formed of smoother-hewn stones, with veins of copper and gold that catch the sunlight.

It's an opulent bedroom, at least as luxurious as mine, but what startles me most is that it exists at all. Until this moment, deep down, I'd believed Peeta slept in my bed last night – maybe even that it had been _his_ bed, and _I_ was the trespasser – but looking at this beautiful room, I realize what a fool I've been. Peeta is a wealthy young man with a bedroom full of furs and cedar and a fireplace that could be mined for precious metals. A bedroom with dented pillows and body-tousled covers and a faint smell of honey and cream and cloves. He most assuredly is _not_ sneaking into my room to rest his head on a pine needle pillow and moan sadly from the opposite side of the bed.

I feel so miserably stupid – and angry because of it – that I turn away to stare at the glinting mantle of the fireplace. Peeta has no reason to share my bed, nor does Pollux or Lavinia. Which means I imagined the whole thing – the footsteps, the weight on the mattress, the quiet moan – in my panic last night.

"Would you?" Peeta asks.

I look up at him, scowling, at a complete loss as to what he's asking me, and he adds, a little sheepishly, "Would you rather have this room? I'm happy to switch, if that's what you want."

His persistent, ridiculous kindness is like a gentle pin, deflating my anger at the slightest nudge. I consider my room, with its dark wood, wild rock, and soft shadows, which is so intimately _me_, and this room, which…isn't. Peeta's bedroom is all warmth and gold and sunset, as much like him as his enormous, bountiful kitchen and cozy little dining room. "Of course not," I answer. "I like the room you gave me, and this one really fits you."

"Thanks," he says, smiling widely. "On both counts."

We leave his bedroom, and Peeta crosses the hall to go into the bathroom, with its cave-shower and stone floor and drowned-blue walls. I hang back awkwardly, half afraid that he's stopping to use the toilet, and wonder if I should close the door for him, but he waves me inside with an encouraging smile. "We'll be sharing this bathroom," he explains, "just you and I. I hope that's okay?"

I had guessed as much this morning, and I shrug. "Sure," I say. "It's far too nice for just me to use."

Peeta frowns as though he'd like to contradict me, but instead he goes over to the cave-shower and slides open the watery glass doors. "This part's a little strange, but I think you'll like it," he says. "Have you used a shower before, Katniss?"

I bite back another scowl. He's not being malicious or mocking; it's just a question, and a fair one for at least two-thirds of the residents of District 12. I shake my head.

"Then I think I can safely say you'll love this," he tells me, grinning. "It's a waterfall."

I know what a waterfall is, sort of. Dad pointed some out to me when I was a child – tiny ones; a steady trickle down a rock face in some of the steeper areas of the woods – and larger, deadly versions have figured in at least one arena that I can recall, but this strange shower doesn't particularly resemble either kind.

"It's a little tricky to figure out, but Lavinia will help you," Peeta says. "There are spouts built into the rock, controlled by buttons hidden in hollows and under ledges. You press one – " He reaches two fingers into a crevice at chest height and quickly leaps back, almost colliding with me, as water pours down from a concealed spout at the very top of the rock wall.

I make a startled sound that might almost be delight. "That's your basic setting," Peeta explains, smiling. My reaction clearly pleased him, but I'm too intrigued by this waterfall-shower to be cross with myself for being so transparent. "Each wall has its own set of controls, and there are buttons and spouts hidden all over the place. I just found a new one last week, actually," he admits with a laugh. "It takes some experimenting, but you can control where the water comes from, how hard and fast it flows, how warm or cold it is. You can run both sides and shower in the middle, or you can just use one side or the other."

"What do you do?" I ask without thinking.

Peeta blushes, and I feel myself mirror it. "I usually use both sides," he answers. "The rock walls are great for handholds to keep my balance, but I always end up sitting at least half the time." He gestures awkwardly at the bench of smooth rock along the back wall of the cave. "I, um…I take off my leg to shower," he says.

How had I forgotten his leg? Unbidden, my mind is filled with an image of naked Peeta, his right leg ending in a stump just below the knee, seated on the bench and lathering himself, with steaming waterfalls to either side of him. It's a sad image, but it does something strange to my insides, not unlike when I smelled his soap in the shower this morning and found myself picturing him naked.

"Is it easier to take a bath?" I ask.

Peeta shrugs. "About the same," he says. "I don't have to worry about balance in the tub, but lifting myself out on one leg can be difficult."

I wonder suddenly, and in a wild panic, if I'm here to help him with bathing. Peeta is sweet and kind and generous, and I owe him anything and everything he could ever ask for, but somehow, the thought of being around him naked, of tending to his naked body, is more than I can bear. I wonder if he'll send me home in disgrace; if Mom and Prim will lose everything, simply because I can't look at a naked man.

I wonder madly if he'd let Prim take my place. She'd be the most wonderful nurse – but then I'd have to explain, at least to Mom and Madge and Gale, why Peeta didn't keep me, and I honestly think I would die of the shame.

My face is so hot, almost feverish, that I'm beginning to feel light-headed. "I-I can't," I stammer. "I'm sorry."

"Can't what?" Peeta asks. He sounds genuinely concerned, worried even. "Can't use the shower? It's a little tricky at first, but it's fun once you figure it out. I…" He trails off and sighs, looking utterly crestfallen. "I really thought you'd like it," he says.

"I can't help you shower," I blurt.

Peeta's mouth falls open. I didn't think it was possible for him to blush darker than I've already seen, but he can, and does.

I turn away, closing my eyes for good measure, and barrel on, "I'm really sorry. I-I could try but…I don't think it would work. So you can send me home –"

"Katniss," he croaks.

It's physically impossible for me to look at him. "I'm sorry," I say again, shaking my head, my eyes still closed tight. "I'm sorry you went through all this trouble for –"

"Katniss," he tries again, stronger this time.

I dare the tiniest glance up at him. His pale face and throat are mottled with a beet-red flush, and he appears to be trying to smile, but it's ending up as a grimace. "I really, _really_ wish I could laugh about this," he says, sounding pained, "just to ease your fears. Suffice it to say: I never expected you to help me with bathing, or…or dressing, or anything like that. I mean, I wouldn't –" He breaks off abruptly, wincing, and stares at his shoes. "I manage okay on my own," he says instead. "When I asked for your company, I didn't mean…I meant the sort of thing we've been doing today. Meals together, and…just talking."

And for the second time in five minutes, I feel like a complete idiot – but, at the same time, ridiculously _relieved_. "Okay," I say, still not quite meeting his eyes. "That's…good."

He chuckles lightly and switches off the water. "Come on," he says, brushing my arm with his fingertips. "There's just one thing left to show you, and then you'll have some time to yourself while I make supper."

We return to the hallway, and Peeta goes to open the door on the other side of my bedroom; the only room that I haven't seen yet. Like my bedroom, it has a fireplace of wild rock, albeit smaller and more simply crafted, and the walls are painted a smudged, woodsy green-brown, like forest shadows. There's an armchair next to the fireplace, a desk and chair in front of the window, and a broad set of shelves, standing empty. It reminds me the slightest bit of Peeta's art room, but I can't imagine what it's meant for.

"This is your room," Peeta says happily.

"I thought my room was next door," I puzzle, although this one certainly makes more sense. It's about a third smaller than the bedroom, and I could sleep – comfortably – in the armchair. I don't need a family-sized bed and furs and a huge fireplace.

Peeta shakes his head, smiling. "That's your bedroom. This is…your room, to use as you like."

"I don't understand," I say, wondering what I could possibly be missing.

"I have the studio," he explains. "A room full of paints and paper and canvases, where I can hide out if I want and paint and sketch to my heart's content. I don't know what you like to do yet, but I wanted you to have a room for it. A hobby room, if you like."

I frown. I've never had the leisure – or money – to develop a hobby or talent of any kind. Peeta's giving me something unexpected and wonderful with this extra room, but I have nothing to do in it – nothing to use it for – and the realization shames me.

"You're welcome to spend time in any room that you want, of course," he clarifies, misinterpreting my expression. "I just thought you might like a place that was _all_ yours, to do whatever you like without anyone bothering you. Not that anyone here _is_ likely to bother you," he adds quickly, looking miserable. "I mean – "

"I get it," I assure him, and scrounge up a small smile. "It's…really generous of you. I just…I don't know what I'll have to do here," I admit.

To my surprise, he brightens at that. "You could write a letter to Prim," he suggests. "There's paper and things in the desk. If you want, of course."

It's a great idea. I already have so much to tell her, and I probably won't get this kind of free time again. "I'd like that," I say. "Thanks."

"Take all the time you need," he tells me. "I'll call you when supper's ready."

Peeta leaves to go downstairs, and I sit down at the desk. The topmost drawer holds pens, pencils, and envelopes; the second a tall stack of fine white paper; the kind Merchant kids do their homework on. I greedily take out three crisp sheets and begin to write.

I tell Prim about _everything_. Peeta's ice-colored eyelashes. Lavinia's startling red hair. Gently spiced hot chocolate, topped with toast cubes and honey, and pie-perfect slices of sweet-tart apple. A bed as wide as our entire bedroom back home, with a warming pan and soft sheets and pine needle pillows. Fireplaces everywhere, crackling with fragrant wood. The huge breakfast that made me cry. My beautiful new coat, with its embroidered katniss vines and lining of white bear's fur. Ice skates and a snowball fight. Snow so pure you could eat it with a spoon. Peeta's own scarf around my snowman's neck. A sweet-shop of a pantry. A waterfall shower, and a bathtub like a pool in the woods.

I want her to smell everything; _taste _everything: dense, buttery shortbread and strawberry tea; crispy-fried sausage, rich with apple and herbs; peaches simmered with brown sugar and nutmeg and splashed with cream; sunny-sweet orange juice and that single staggering bite of white chocolate. I want her to know how good the house smells: of freshly baked bread and griddle cakes, pine and cinnamon and cedar, sweet wood smoke and the quiet musk of fur. How good _Peeta_ smells, even. I blush a little as I describe being inside the bearskin with him: the comforting whiffs of fresh bread and ginger cake from his sweater, and the scent of his warm skin that made me want to press myself closer, to lay my face on his chest and breathe him in.

I don't tell her about Peeta rubbing my feet, either time, or the unexpected kisses he placed there this afternoon. I don't tell her about his whispered _Welcome home, Katniss_, so like a kiss against my stocking cap. I don't tell her about Avoxes, or that Peeta held me close while we talked of them. There was an intimacy in those moments that I can scarcely believe myself; that I neither want nor need to share with Prim. My little sister would only giggle and think it meant something: that I _like_ Peeta or, worse yet, that Peeta likes _me_. I still don't know how to explain our bargain, but _liking _had nothing to do with it.

I spare her the few unpleasant details; she still lives in the district, and sees plenty of those on a daily basis. I don't tell her about the Capitol room, dusty and cold and silently sinister. I don't tell her _why_ beautiful Lavinia and friendly Pollux can't speak. And I certainly don't tell her about Mom and Peeta's father. Prim barely remembers Dad, but she really likes the baker, and she'll see him almost every day. I can't ruin their friendship simply because my curiosity got the better of me.

I kick off the fleecy slippers and tuck my bare feet under me, settling into the chair as I write. The woods outside my window grow dark, and Lavinia stops by to quietly build up the fire. I hadn't noticed the room getting any colder and realize that the house must be heated, as well as lit, by electricity. The fireplaces help but aren't essential – another indication of just how wealthy Peeta really is.

When I'm nearly finished, I go back and reread what I've written – to my astonishment, I've filled almost five pages, front and back. I'm not much of a storyteller, but my simple account of what's happened so far sounds surprisingly like one of Dad's old tales. A poor girl goes to live in a palace, with a handsome benefactor and silent servants, and is given fine clothes and the very best food and a beautiful room to sleep in. All that's missing is a mystery of some kind; a riddle to be solved.

A soft knock startles me out of these ridiculous musings. "Katniss," Peeta calls, his voice muffled slightly by the door. "Supper's almost ready, if you'd like to come down."

I can't remember the last time someone called me for a meal. Breakfast today was the first full meal since Dad died that someone prepared _for_ _me_ – food I didn't have to hunt or forage for and stretch as far as possible while trying, at the same time, to make pleasantly palatable with a pinch of salt or herbs. And what a meal it had been.

I smile and set down my pencil. "I'll be right there," I reply.

I follow my nose to the dining room which, owing to the darkness outside, seems somehow even cozier and more welcoming than it had been this afternoon. A cheery fire crackles behind the grate, casting merry shadows across the walls, and Peeta stands at the table, lighting three fat golden beeswax candles.

The table is set with dishes that match the teapot we used this afternoon – the same dishes we ate from this morning, no doubt, but I was too hungry to notice – generously sized white plates and deep bowls, rimmed with gold and patterned with pine branches and pinecones. I remember the gossip when Peeta came to town to collect his crate of dishes and wonder why he chose these in particular. The pattern fits his house – or at least, the parts I live in – but not him. Peeta is orange and red and yellow; cedar and sunset, not pine.

There's a place set at one end of the table, and a second in front of the chair to its right. At the center of the table is a large covered tureen, painted all round with pine boughs, with a ladle beside it, and a round loaf of fresh bread.

Peeta looks up from the candles and smiles, blushing slightly. "It's a bit fancy for soup and bread," he says. "Sorry."

He seats me at the end of the table, then takes the lid off the tureen and ladles out a bowlful of thick golden soup. He sets the bowl in front of me, and my stomach gives an eager lunge at the savory aromas rising in the steam.

"Pumpkin soup," he explains. "It sounded good after such a cold day. I hope it's all right," he adds, a little abashed. "I browned your onion separately and added it last, so it would still have a bit of crunch."

I stir the soup with my spoon to find hearty pale wedges of onion and small chunks of potato with their red skins still on. "This looks amazing," I tell him, and devour a spoonful.

It's _perfect_. The onions are tender and sweet but crisp, the potatoes firm on the spoon yet soft to the bite, and the pumpkin base…It's like the very best squash I can imagine, only smooth and stringless, made buttery-rich with cream and something tangy that I can't quite identify, with whispers of garlic, rosemary, and Peeta's mild white pepper.

He cuts me a thick wedge of bread – the flaky center is swirled with crumbled sausage and green herbs – and I eagerly take a bite. The bread is steaming hot, soft and a little yeasty, and there's a sweet, licorice-like note to the sausage – fennel seed, I think – perfectly matched to the pockets of bright, pungent herbs. I moan at the heady combination of flavors and dip the bread into my soup before taking another bite.

I'm delving into my second bowlful with my third piece of sausage-stuffed bread before I manage to raise my eyes to Peeta, who's smiling and waiting patiently to start a conversation. I'm mortified by my blinding appetite but console myself with the fact that he's working on a second bowl as well. The air between us is heavy with the honeylike fragrance of melting beeswax and the warmth of the flames; the candles have burned down at least a half-inch since I arrived, filling the room with their earthy-sweet scent.

"I'm really sorry," I tell him. "It's just so _good_."

"Don't be," he says, smiling so broadly that it must hurt his face. "I'm really glad you're enjoying it. How's the letter coming?"

"I feel a little guilty," I admit, "telling Prim about all these good things." Especially since I agreed to Peeta's bargain so _she_ could have good things: a new house and food and clothes. _I_ wasn't supposed to get anything out of the deal, except maybe a job and a place to sleep.

I know Prim won't mind, of course; it'll be like a fairytale for her, reading about Peeta's house with its luxurious rooms and costly, delicious meals. But I can't help it. I'm used to giving her every last nice thing I can lay hands on, be it a colorful hair ribbon or a single square of chocolate or her very own goat. And here I am, enjoying feasts and ice skates and a huge bed blanketed with fur, and I hadn't thought of Prim until I started telling her about them.

"You _do_ realize: my dad's looking after her now," Peeta says, grinning. "He always wanted a daughter – and he _really_ likes your sister. I expect he's spoiling the living daylights out of her," he tells me, and laughs – a warm, infectious laugh that makes me lean a little closer. "As we speak, she's probably dressed head to foot in pink lace, with a slice of cake in each hand."

I chuckle at his image of a pretty, pampered Prim, all shiny hair and pink ribbons and smiles full of frosting. It's so _right_ – it's what I'd hoped for, really, when I agreed to Peeta's bargain, trading myself to make my family rich. "Prim's easy to love," I say, dipping my bread into the soup to guide a potato onto my spoon.

"So are –"

Peeta breaks off suddenly, causing me to look up in surprise. He's staring fixedly down at his soup bowl, his lips bitten together as though he's in pain. "Dad likes you too," he says quietly. His voice shakes a little.

I wonder what he meant to say. Surely not that _I'm_ easy to love. The only people who've managed it in sixteen years are Dad and Prim – and Mom, I suppose.

But I consider what he _did_ say and immediately think of the baker holding me as I cried over the hamper of food. Of how wonderful it felt, for those brief moments, to be comforted by a man's arms. We've always had a great trading relationship, Mr. Mellark and I. He's always been kind and generous, almost foolishly so, but I can't say he's ever shown me affection before. But if what Peeta says is true, maybe he'd wanted to but thought I'd rebuff it – which I certainly would have done.

And I know now what I didn't before – that Peeta's father had loved my mother once; had had his heart broken by her, most likely – so the notion of him feeling _anything_ for me, aside from a grudging sort of gratitude for the herbs and squirrels I bring, makes even less sense. Sweet, sunny Prim is one thing; people genuinely adore her. They fall all over themselves to be kind to her, as well they should, and the baker no less than anyone. But dark, scowling Katniss is something else entirely. I'm unlikable enough as I am, without the mother who broke his heart.

I turn my attention back to my soup and try to forget the whole thing. Peeta finishes his own bowl in silence, then excuses himself and goes out to the kitchen. I wonder if I've angered him – for once, I hadn't said anything caustic or rude – and then he returns, smiling once more, his hands full with a small dark cake on a decorative platter and a little ceramic pitcher. He sets both on the table beside me, and I can't hold back a gasp of delighted surprise.

It's a ginger cake, about one-third the size of the one he made for my family yesterday, and the little pitcher is full of piping hot custard. It's perfect for two people to share – or one hungry Katniss to devour. "Peeta," I protest, coloring slightly, "what did you make another one of these for?"

"For you, of course," he laughs. "I know you didn't have all you wanted – Prim told me so, in the sleigh. She said you gave half of the cake to the Hawthornes and had three tiny slices of what was left, and Madge ate your last bite."

I resolve to add an angry note to Prim's letter, telling her not to gossip about me, let alone to Peeta. He wouldn't have had to wheedle in the least; he could have simply looked at her and she would have told him anything he wanted to know – and even more so if he'd asked. I'm embarrassed at the thought of Peeta knowing how much I loved his cake, but at the same time, grateful for it. Maybe it was my desperate hunger, but I've never tasted anything quite so delicious as that ginger cake and have never wanted another helping of anything quite so badly.

"Thanks," I say weakly. My mouth is watering at the haze of molasses and ginger rising from the warm cake, and I wonder if Peeta would care if I simply grabbed a fistful and stuffed it into my mouth. After all, it isn't sliced yet.

Grinning, he produces two clean spoons from his trouser pocket and I hear myself laugh. Laugh like I laughed on the lake today, and in the snow. It's a startling, merry, almost musical sound, and it feels exquisitely _good_. How have just a few hours in Peeta's company managed to pull _laughter_ out of me?

Peeta's expression softens in response. He's still smiling at me, but there's something strange in his eyes that makes my eager stomach flutter. "I don't mind if you don't," he teases, offering me one of the spoons.

The corners of my mouth curve up in an involuntary response – a smile, and a playful one – as I take the spoon. Peeta pours a small pool of custard over the entire little cake, and we dig in from opposite sides, lifting custard-drenched spoonful after spoonful to our mouths and exchanging small, furtive grins. The cake is oven-fresh and even better than yesterday's, dense and moist and staggering with spices, and Peeta pours on more custard as it disappears into the cake or our mouths. When our spoons finally touch at the center of the sticky platter, we've cleaned up the entire pitcher's worth of custard and half a cake each, crumbs and all.

Peeta nudges the last bite toward me with the tip of his spoon. "Go on," he laughs, flopping back into his chair. "I can't deny you anything."

"Thanks, Madge," I tease, and gobble up the final bite of cake without shame as Peeta grins back at me. I feel so good and warm and full that I hardly recognize myself. My stomach is happily content with the rich, soothing foods, and my taste buds are dancing from the variety of flavors.

It's the most comfortable moment I've had with Peeta yet. We've both had plenty to eat – and then some – we've laughed while sharing a whole little cake, and now we're smiling at each other across the corner of the table, with the crackling hearth to one side of us and the gentle flames of the heady beeswax candles to the other. In this moment I can forget the bargain, the tasks I'm sure to be assigned any minute now, and the fact that I'll be living here forever. Right now, _forever_ in this house – in this room, even – sounds like a wonderful prospect.

Peeta's smile wavers ever so slightly. "Katniss, why did-?" he says, only to pause, shaking his head, and rephrase the question. "What kind of bread do you like?" he asks, smiling brightly. "I meant to ask earlier."

"Ginger?" I suggest, only half-kidding, and he laughs.

"Gingerbread's not all that different from this, really, unless you're talking about cookies," he says, gesturing at the empty platter. "But I could make it as a sort of quick bread, if you like. It would be good with goat cheese and applesauce."

"That sounds amazing," I tell him honestly, already aching to taste it.

He chuckles. Peeta's always been good-natured, but there's something almost…_blissful_ about him tonight. His laughter, his easy smiles…I don't think I've ever seen him happier, except maybe that strange euphoric moment when we first arrived last night. "Fair enough," he says, "but what about _bread_ bread?" He motions at the lonely heel of the sausage-stuffed bread, the only bit we didn't finish with our soup. "I bake every morning, and I want to make bread that you like."

"Oh," I say. "Um…I'll eat anything, really." I blush at the thought of how true that is. I've lived on pine bark, organ meats, roots – everything but dirt and waste, really.

"Yes, but you don't need to anymore," he says gently. "I'll make whatever you want. Do you like herbs? Nuts? Seeds? Sweet things?"

My stomach growls eagerly in spite of its hearty contents. "It all sounds good," I assure him. "I love bread." And I realize, in saying that, I've already started to change. Before this evening I would never have admitted to liking – let alone _loving_ – something I knew I couldn't have.

"Then it's handy I'm a baker's son," he answers, grinning broadly. "And we have plenty of time to experiment. I can make a different kind of bread every morning –"

"Oh!" I interrupt at a sudden thought. "Breakfast! I'm so sorry about this morning – but I'll be up to cook tomorrow," I promise.

"No need," he says softly, and leans forward to touch my cheek with a fingertip. "Sleep as late as you like. There's no school tomorrow, after all," he reminds me with a crooked smile.

It's far from late, but it feels like I'm being dismissed for the night. As though Peeta has nothing for me to do and is giving me the rest of the evening for whatever activities I choose. "I'll do the dishes, then," I say, and start to rise, but Peeta's hand covers mine on the tabletop, gently checking the motion.

"I'll clean up," he tells me, his bright eyes very serious. "I _want_ to, Katniss."

I look at his hand on mine, at the fine golden hairs dusting his pale wrist. "Okay," I whisper. I know this – Peeta working while I play – won't last forever, but in this moment, a small part of me can't resist embracing the fairytale. I want to go back to that little room – my very own room, just for leisure – with its plush carpet and desk and fireplace and spin another unbelievable yarn for my little sister.

"Is – is it all right if I work on Prim's letter a little more?" I ask. I'll need another page, at the least, to tell her about supper, and I'm certain I won't have this kind of free time again.

"Of course," Peeta says without hesitation. "We can even send her a little present, if you want."

"_Really?"_ I wonder, thrilled in spite of myself. It's been at the back of my mind – to send Prim some small treasure from the beautiful house in the woods – ever since I reread my letter, but I didn't have the nerve to ask anything of Peeta, let alone a gift for my sister, for whom he's already providing every comfort.

"Of course," he says again, smiling warmly, and gives my hand a little squeeze. "Anything you like. Just let me know."

He releases my hand then, but I find my body strangely reluctant to move. This room, the food, the flames, Peeta's company…it's warm and pleasant as the very best dream. The part of me that had wanted to work on Prim's letter just a moment ago is now perfectly content to remain here.

Scowling inwardly at my foolishness, I shift my stubborn limbs, hefting myself to my feet. "Well…good night, then," I say.

"Good night, Katniss," he answers softly.

I return to the desk and pick up the letter where I left off. I tell Prim about pumpkin soup, made with the onion I wanted so badly; the sausage-stuffed bread; the impossibly cozy dining room; and the incredible ginger cake – which, I joke, was entirely her fault. I don't say anything about a present, though, just in case Peeta changes his mind.

I've just signed off on the letter when there's a light rap on the door and Lavinia peeks in. I'm not quite sleepy yet, though I suppose I could change for bed, and I tell her as much, but she shakes her head and pantomimes scrubbing herself.

"Wash up?" I say. "I didn't really get dirty today, but I suppose I could."

She shakes her head again and gestures down the hallway toward the bathroom, then mimes what looks like rain falling over her. "Wash…rain…shower?" I guess. "You want me to take a shower?"

She spreads her elegant white hands and shrugs. _If you want to_, it seems to say.

I consider the offer. I just took a bath yesterday, maybe the most thorough one I've ever had in my life, and I certainly don't need another yet, but the waterfall shower _does_ intrigue me. A quick wash might be all right, just to see how it works. And I'm so comfortable right now; a shower in that beautiful cave would be the perfect end to this lush feast of a day.

I follow Lavinia down to the bathroom, where she's already assembled a stack of thick, downy towels on a stool outside the shower, plus a soft green robe that I haven't seen before but, I infer, must be mine. She gestures between me and the robe, miming getting undressed, then she closes the hall door and disappears into my bedroom, granting me privacy.

Despite how cool and watery the bathroom looks, especially on a winter night, it _feels_ toasty-warm. I quickly peel out of my clothing, folding it as I go, then slip into the plush, voluminous robe. I unbraid my hair too, combing out the kinks with my fingers.

Lavinia doesn't return right away, and I find myself wondering why she suggested a shower – and, obviously, prepared for me to take one before I'd even agreed to it. It's a luxury I've never had before, to be sure, but this close to my last bath, it seems almost ridiculous. I wonder if Peeta mentioned it to her after our tour. After all, he said she would teach me how to use the shower. It just seems so _soon_…and then – _stupid, stupid Katniss!_ – I realize it's not soon at all.

How had I failed to see what lay behind Peeta's gentle generosity? It'll be tonight. Of course it will. I'm rested, well-fed, _settled_now. Peeta left me alone last night out of kindness and has gone to almost unbelievable lengths today to ensure my comfort. Maybe the shower is just another part of that, or maybe he wants me to be cleaner than a Seam washtub can achieve. For certain, he'll want a soft, sweet-smelling girl between the sheets.

I grasp at the outside wall of the cave shower to steady my trembling legs and suck in rapid, shallow breaths, fighting the bile rising in my throat. _Gentle Peeta, _I remind myself frantically, recalling his small, halting touches. _Kind Peeta. He'll make sure it hurts as little as possible._

_Maybe that's why he's telling you not to worry about breakfast tomorrow,_ a voice whispers in my head. _He expects you to be…well, worn out._

I shake my head fiercely, trying to clear it of such thoughts. Peeta will be kind in bed. _He might even do something that feels _good, I admit, recalling his hands and lips on my feet this afternoon. And he's certainly not repulsive. He'll smell of yeast and shortbread and woodsmoke tonight; his mouth will taste of pumpkin soup and sausage-bread and ginger cake. The thought of the _act_ makes me shiver and feel sick, but I can bear it for Peeta's sake. After all, maybe the girl he loved _did_ refuse him, and this beautiful dream of a house is for naught. I can let this lonely, gentle young man take some physical pleasure from me in return for all of his kindness.

Lavinia opens the door from my bedroom then, making me start, and comes over to me at once, her fine features gravely concerned. I'm struggling to keep calm, but I still have a hand braced on the rock wall and am bent over a little. She mimes rubbing her stomach with a grimace and looks at me questioningly; wondering if I'm sick, I think.

"No," I tell her, then wish I'd lied. My shaky, nauseous behavior makes no sense otherwise.

She frowns, unsatisfied, but steps back to unbutton and roll up her sleeves. I straighten with another shallow breath, releasing my grip on the rock wall, and she brings a tentative hand to my back, rubbing small, soft circles between my shoulder blades. I realize she's at a loss as to what's wrong but is trying to comfort me as best she can, and surprisingly enough, it helps. There's something almost maternal in her touch; it reminds me of being sick as a child, and Mom stroking my back as she coaxed me to drink a little water or broth.

After a minute or so of this, Lavinia peers hopefully into my face, wondering, no doubt, if I'm feeling any better. I nod and thank her, and she slides open the glass doors at the mouth of the cave. She reaches up to one rock wall, then turns back to take my hand and guide it into the hollow at chest height where Peeta switched on the water this afternoon. There's a tiny dial there, and it turns with a soft click, sending water – ice-cold – down the rock wall. I yelp as it splashes my bare feet and try to pull back, but Lavinia holds my hand steady and prompts me to turn the dial a little further. I do, a careful fraction at a time, and the water grows steadily warmer till it cascades, balmy as a summer's day, down the wall.

Lavinia releases my hand and gestures for me to take my robe off. I hesitate for a moment. She's seen me half-naked, of course, but that was only for a split second as she helped me into my nightgown. Once I surrender the robe, I'll be naked – _completely _naked, in a room I can hardly hide in – until she gives it back. Then again, I'm in this house _forever_, and before the night is over I'll be naked for _Peeta_. Shivering at the thought, I slip out of the robe.

Lavinia takes it from me with a small, distressed sound, her eyes on my midsection, and I realize she's looking at how thin I am. Despite all the nourishing food I've eaten today, my ribs and hipbones are still prominent from long weeks of hunger. The rest of me is lean and rangy, with scarcely a curve in sight. Even my shoulders feel birdlike and hollow.

She shakes her head, her dark eyes sad, and gently ushers me into the cave. The water is, rather unhelpfully, running straight down over the rocks, but it splashes out in places, and I can improvise. I bring both hands into the stream – it's _so_ wonderfully warm – and sigh. I'm about to duck my head under a little ledge when Lavinia gives a chuckle and tugs me back.

"No?" I puzzle.

She takes my hand and guides it to a prominent dark brown rock just above my head, and I find another small dial. I turn this one just a fraction and the water spray falls a little higher – as though I'm angling the hidden spout up and out. I turn the dial a little more and the water jets past the rock wall to fall a foot or so in front of it. A warm cascade of water, perfectly placed for a slender bather. I take an eager step forward, only for Lavinia to tug me back again, plunging her arm into the spray.

So _that's_ why she rolled her sleeves up. I give her an exasperated look, and she grins. She points at another rock, a sandy yellow one at waist-level, and I trace it with my wet fingers till I find a small button. I press it, a little wary of her mirth, and gloriously warm water sprays out from a hidden spout to spill over my ribs. She shows me another, just opposite my right shoulder, that sends a pleasant cross-current through the main fall of water, then waves a hand along the rock wall. _More_, she mouths.

I remember Peeta's words about hidden buttons and spouts; about there being so many, so well hidden, that _he_ just found a new one. And I'm only on one side of the cave. I try to imagine having all spouts running on both rock walls – warm steamy water coursing across the cave from every direction – and my knees go a little weak.

Lavinia smiles and gestures at the ledge on the back wall of the cave, which holds three distinct sets of bottles. She points to the first, then at her hair; at the second, then at her face; at the third, then at her body. Different soaps for hair, face, and body?

"I need three different soaps?" I ask, frowning. "For one shower?" I consider telling her that I've bathed with our harsh laundry soap, top to toe, for the past sixteen years.

She nods, smiling, and gestures emphatically at the ledge of bottles, then she ducks out of the shower and slides the watery blue glass doors closed behind her.

I step into the stream of water and moan. I always imagined a shower would be something like standing in the rain, but this is a hundred times more pleasant. The water falls heavy and ceaseless and _so _warm, pouring deliciously over my body. It smells faintly like lake water, only better, and I realize it's probably piped in from the lake – filtered somewhere along the way, and _thawed_, of course, at this time of year – but it still carries with it faint odors of wet stone and mud and water weeds. Rather than feeling removed from my former life in the woods, this makes me feel somehow more connected.

Once my hair is wet through, I reach for the foremost of the bottles in the first section on the ledge. A tall, slim tube of pearlescent plastic, it features a picture of a pretty Capitol woman with an unlikely cloud of lush lavender curls billowing about her face. Shrugging, I uncap the bottle and pour out a palmful of shimmery gray liquid, winking here and there with little flecks of silver. It smells floral and spicy, like cinnamon and lily-of-the-valley or something even more exotic, but I work it in, curious, and am astonished at how sleek my hair is when I go to wash it out. I did no more than finger-comb the soap through, and yet there's not a single tangle. My hair, slick and smooth, drapes my shoulders like a shawl of silk.

Delighted by the effect, I reach for a small bottle in the center section – this one is pale blue and patterned all round with a Capitol-glamorized version of trailing chamomile – and squeeze out a little dollop of something creamy. I massage it over my face, breathing in the sweet, ferny scent that I know so well from harvesting for Mom, and wonder if it's the same thing Lavinia put on the washcloth last night. My skin seems to drink it up; when I rinse my face, there is no soap residue to be seen. I wonder idly if Lavinia has any more of the thick rose-scented cream she put on my skin last night before bed. My chapping has already begun to fade, and I hardly need such a luxury, but it felt _so_ good.

I turn last to the bottles in the third section. I don't need anything frivolous – _anything _more,_ at least,_ I chuckle – so I reach around the colorful, decorative ones at the front for a stout brown bottle with a label lettered in copper. I uncap and upend it, as I did with the others, and a pool of pale gold liquid, the color of creamed honey – _of Peeta's hair,_ I think irrationally – spills out over my palm.

The scent I know as _Peeta_ – honey and cream and cloves, amplified by the heat of the shower – floods the cave and I gasp, shoving the bottle back onto the ledge. This is _his_ soap, and I've poured out more than a little. _Will he be furious?_ I wonder frantically, and answer myself just as quickly, _No, of course he won't. He'll understand; it's a simple enough mistake to make._

I look at the pool of soap in my hand, furious with myself. I could try to put it back in the bottle, but I'd probably make a bigger mess and spill even more of it. And this is costly Capitol soap; I can't waste it.

I bring the soap-filled hand to my chest, rubbing the liquid onto my skin, and shudder. The soap forms a slippery gold-tinted lather that coats my fingers, making my hands feel like someone else's as they move over my tiny breasts, then lower, over my belly and backside, and flit over the place between my legs, the patch of black curls that I never give more than a cursory soap-and-rinse. I'm enveloped by the scent of Peeta's body; half-drunk with it, coupled with the warm spray of the shower, pouring steady sheets of steaming water over my body. It's as though he's in the cave with me, bathing me with his own strong hands, brushing them over my most intimate places. I wipe a smudge of soap from my inner thigh and my breath skitters from my lungs in a ragged exhalation.

The image of naked Peeta crashes into my mind – all pale skin and golden hair, with warm water coursing down his muscular body and eddying about his navel…and lower – making my chest and throat burn with a painful flush. My mind goes hazy, dreamlike. This is what's waiting for me in bed tonight, after all: Peeta Mellark's firm body and warm hands, the scent of his skin in my lungs. It's only right that I smell like him now; before this night is over, I'll have his sweat on my body. The thought triggers a dizzying mix of terror and anticipation.

There's a knock on the glass then, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Lavinia slides the door open a little ways – ascertaining if I'm finished – and sniffs curiously, raising her brows.

"I grabbed the wrong soap," I blurt, my cheeks flaming. "I'm s-sorry. Will Peeta be angry?"

She smiles slowly and shakes her head. With a little help, I locate all the buttons and dials to shut off the water, then Lavinia dries me gently with warmed towels of thirsty plush. When my body is dry, she wraps my still-damp hair in a towel on top of my head, helps me into my robe and slippers, and ushers me back to my bedroom.

I'm almost surprised to find the bed empty. In my panic, I'd half-assumed I'd find Peeta there, but I guess he wants to wait till I'm tucked in and comfortable. The rack in front of the fireplace holds a soft, cream-colored nightgown, thicker and heavier than the green one from last night. I suppose Peeta likes his lovers to be warm when he comes to them.

Lavinia points me toward the dressing table and smiles. There's a little crock filled with what looks like soft cubes of bread, a mug of tea, and a little pitcher of cream. Peeta's sent me a bedtime snack. In spite of everything, I feel a bubble of exasperated laughter nudge its way up my throat. He's scarcely stopped feeding me for an hour all day. And the funny thing is, somehow, I'm still hungry – or, at least, hungry enough for this.

I go to the dressing table and pick up the mug. It smells a bit like Peeta's ginger cake, deep and rich and spicy, and I already know I'll want cream in it. _Silly Katniss, _I chide._ One day in a rich man's house and you want luxury at every turn._

I've just lifted the mug to my lips when the realization strikes, cold and breathless: Peeta's drugging me. He might even mean it as a kindness. He knows I don't want him – maybe even thinks I _can't_ want him – and wants to make the experience as painless as possible for me. But I can't do it. It's like knowing you're going to be poisoned, and then being forced to take the poison from your own hand.

I set the mug down, unsipped, and sit carefully at the dressing table, breathing shallowly. I don't want to have sex with Peeta, but I'd rather be aware of it than to wake in pain tomorrow and wonder what was done to me. And he deserves, at the very least, a conscious lover. I don't want this – I barely even _understand_ it – and I know it'll be unpleasant, but I can at least try to make it good for Peeta. He deserves that, after all. This sweet boy who fed me with his own hands, who held me while I trembled at Capitol horror stories. This boy who rubbed my feet because he knew I wanted it – who _kissed_ my feet.

I think of the soft nudge of his lips against my arches, the moist warmth of his breath on my skin, and shiver. It won't be awful, not really. It'll hurt, but Peeta will be kind. And I'm strong; I can bear it.

I look up in the mirror to see Lavinia watching me, frowning slightly, and realize that my face has gone pale with fear. She turns me gently to face her and raises her eyebrows in question. I shake my head. "It's…I'm all right." I assure her. "Just not hungry."

Her frown deepens, and she reaches into the collar of her dress to draw out a small slate on a cord, about half the size of the one Pollux carries. She's hasn't written me any message yet, and I wonder what could be so important to make her break that silence now.

She takes the tiny stub of chalk from its bracket on one side of the slate and writes something brief, no more than a word or two, and then turns the slate for me to read.

_No harm._

"From…you?" I ask warily. Up till now, I hadn't considered her a threat. I wonder, worriedly, if I should have.

She makes an all-encompassing gesture. "In this house?" I ask. She scowls and makes the gesture again, this time including herself. "From all of you?" She nods fiercely and points at the food on the dressing table.

I understand what she means now and wonder how obvious I've been. "Peeta," I choke. "Peeta means me no harm." I knew that, deep down, but somehow it carries more weight, coming from this woman who was enslaved and mutilated by the Capitol. If anyone has grounds to be overly cautious, it's her. But she seems entirely at ease with Peeta – almost bantering with him, through her expressions.

She turns the slate back again and adds another message: _Will never hurt you._ As I watch, she underlines _never_ three times. And as though that weren't enough reassurance, she picks up the mug and takes a long sip, then smiles and rubs her stomach – the sort of gesture you make to show a child that something is good – and I laugh. "Okay," I tell her. "I'll try it."

The tea is delicious, of course, malty like my afternoon cup but heavy with cinnamon and ginger, and a splash of cream only makes it better. Encouraged, I try a spoonful of the crock's contents – it _is_ bread cubes, soaked in something rich and baked to resemble a dense cake – and feel the evening's anxieties melt away, almost at once. It's a plain dish – warm bread and cinnamon and nutmeg, perhaps with a little egg and milk to hold it together – and yet it's the most comforting food I've ever eaten. Though I've never had anything like it in all my life, it tastes like _home_. Like crackling hearths and soft covers and strong arms, keeping me safe. I eat another bite, and another and another, eagerly but without haste, and can barely draw my eyes up from the crock to ask Lavinia, "What _is_ this?"

She looks at me for a long moment, then picks up the slate again. _Ask him_, she writes.

I wonder if she's being deliberately obtuse in this, but she's not smirking, not even smiling. "Okay," I concede, then, smiling a little myself, tease, "See how much easier _this_–" I gesture between us – "is when you talk to me?"

She quirks one perfect black brow, the smallest of smiles playing about her lips, then she tugs my chair away from the dressing table and the remainder of my food, relocating me in front of the fireplace. It's a playful, almost sisterly thing to do, and I wonder whether, before all this, Lavinia had sisters of her own. I wonder if they were older or younger than her.

She retrieves the crock and mug for me, amid a grin or two, and turns me so my back is to the fire, then she unwraps the towel around my hair and proceeds to comb it out, over and over again, carefully pressing out the water with a second, fresh towel. It feels ridiculously good – like yesterday, when Mom combed and trimmed my hair after my bath, but even _better_. I'm being pampered, having my newly sleek hair dried in gentle degrees.

While she works, I finish the tea and the crock of spiced bread-cake. Once my hair is dry – even my scalp no longer feels damp, thanks to her clever combing and pressing – Lavinia weaves it into a very loose braid and helps me dress for bed. The clean underwear she hands me are my own, graying and threadbare, from home, but it's a comfort, that most intimate of garments coming from my life before. The nightgown is feather-soft and almost too warm; I hardly need the heat from the warming pan tonight, but I know my toes will be grateful for it.

I return to the bathroom to clean my teeth with a tingling paste that tastes of anise and cinnamon, and Lavinia – to my delight – retrieves the jar of rose-scented Capitol cream. She swabs it over my entire face tonight, working it into my thirsty skin with her soft fingertips, then she dollops a little into the palm of my right hand and gestures for me to rub my hands together. I do so with pleasure.

She tucks me into bed, just as she did last night, but this time she pauses a moment, looking very thoughtful, and bends to press a kiss to my forehead. It's such a tender, parental gesture that my eyes sting a little. "Thank you, Lavinia," I whisper, and with a little curtsey, she turns out the lights and leaves the room.

Between the warm shower, Lavinia's ministrations, and that remarkable bread-cake, I'm surprisingly drowsy. I tug the nearest pine needle pillow into place beneath my cheek – its fragrance, too, is a particular comfort – and close my eyes. I'm not afraid now. Peeta won't hurt me; Lavinia promised as much, which means he can't intend what I feared earlier. And if not for that, he'll have no reason to come to my bed.

I'm drifting at the edge of sleep when I hear the door open and the footsteps approaching the opposite side of the bed. I tense up, wide awake now, and brace for the weight on the mattress. _That's not what he's here for,_ I tell myself, as I hear the person undress. _It might not even be him. _After all, Peeta has that beautiful bedroom of autumn and sunset, with its bed of cedar trunks and fireplace veined with gold. He has no reason to cross the hall and get into bed with me.

But if not Peeta, then _who?_ Lavinia has an entire attic with a pretty bed of her own, and Pollux has his cozy loft above the stable. I remember Peeta saying something about Pollux coming to stay in the house on cold nights; could he be so tired he went to the wrong room? Then again, Pollux has proved himself a playful character. Could he have come to my bed on purpose, as a joke of some kind?

The person draws back the blankets, lies down, and gives a sudden, sharp intake of breath. A gasp.

_Why?_ I wonder wildly. What did they see or feel? What about me is so awful as to cause a gasp? I'm fully covered by the nightgown and my hair is braided, loose but neat. I reach to the back of my head, touching my braid and shoulders in search of something out of place, and I feel the person – or rather, their weight on the mattress – stiffen. Their breath halts. It's as though they're willing themselves invisible.

The hunter in me recognizes it before the confused, half-frightened girl. I've seen this behavior in game a hundred times – very nearly on a daily basis – and last night, I saw it in myself. The moment when they know they're caught – sighted – and they still all movement in hopes of disappearing into the landscape. This person doesn't want me to know they're here. They're _afraid_ of me knowing that they're here.

I bring my hand back in front of me and deliberately slow my breath, hoping to pass off the gesture as a sub-conscious one and reassure the person of my state of slumber. After a few moments they release their own caught breath and carefully draw the blankets up over us, their rigid body softening against the mattress. They make no further sound nor move toward me; still, I wait for their breathing to even out in sleep before I dare to close my eyes again.

I pinch myself once, a quick, sharp nip at the thin skin of my wrist, but I'm not sure what I'm hoping to prove. I am most assuredly _not_ dreaming, nor was I last night. There is a silent stranger in my bed – _no, not silent._ Last night they gave a moan, tonight a gasp, and then lay, still and quiet, till they fell asleep.

I could turn over and look; the room is dark by the dying firelight, but I could still make out the color of a head of hair, if I chose. And yet something inside me resists fiercely, as though it's forbidden. As though _I_ would be the trespasser, to turn and look on my companion – who clearly, if inexplicably, fears my notice – in their vulnerability of slumber.

Prim's fairytale is now complete in every detail. There _is_ a mystery here, and tonight it has only deepened.


	9. To Win the Trust of a Wild Creature

**Author's Note:** As always, you guys have been enormously patient with this endless, cozy epic. This chapter is the longest one yet (and my favorite so far!), which I hope will make up for the delay. Thank you all for the lovely reviews, PMs, and Tumblr notes. Every single one of them means the world to me!

A very special thank you to my dear **salanderjade**, who agreed to take a look at a scene from this chapter (on the fly!) and provide some much-needed feedback.

And as always, enormous thanks to **DandelionSunset**, my best friend and the world's most delightful reader-cheerleader. If it wasn't for her, this chapter might never have seen the light of day. If you aren't already reading **Sever**, do so now! Exquisitely spun in rich, sometimes gritty detail, there is some dark subject matter (namely poverty and abuse), but the love story at the heart of the fic is radiant and titillating in turns. (And if you're leery of the content, never fear: I have very strong squicks, and I can not only handle this fic but LOVE it! Be brave. You won't be disappointed!)

Finally: I keep neglecting to mention, but there are two glorious pieces of **When the Moon fanart** in circulation that you all must see, one by the lovely **wollaston **(**alonglineofbread **on Tumblr) and the other by the delightful **disgruntledcupcakecreative**. Links to both are in my profile.

And **SythiaSkyfire** even wrote me a beautiful **When the Moon-inspired POEM!** (I'll share it at the end of the chapter, as it ties in rather nicely. :D) You guys melt my pea-pickin' little heart! I'm honored that my story has the power to inspire readers and am overwhelmed to see the creative works that result. Thank you all, so much!

And so, to the story…

* * *

**Chapter Nine: To Win the Trust of a Wild Creature**

_This same occurrence happened every night when the candle's light was blown out.  
__The young girl never spoke of it in the daylight, fearing that the white bear might become angry.  
_~_East of the Sun and West of the Moon, _retold by Kathleen and Michael Hague

_I dream, deeper and more vibrantly than I ever have before. I'm standing in the cave shower, but the ceiling is open to the sky. It's midnight above, black and cold and bright with a waning moon, but beneath the warm spray I'm golden, my olive skin honeylike and shimmering as I lather myself with slippery palmfuls of liquid sunlight. The cave smells of the lake and the woods and of Peeta – of his soap and his skin and perhaps, faintly, of bread and ginger cake as well. My body hums like a current, as though anticipating something._

_I hear the glass doors slide open behind me, and I stiffen but don't turn around. The smell of Peeta is suddenly overwhelming, and my knees give a little, forcing me to catch at the rock wall for a hand-hold._

"_I'd never hurt you, Katniss," Peeta's voice says softly. "Not ever."_

"_I know," I whisper. Still I don't turn around._

_I feel a hand at the nape of my neck, warm fingers gently drawing my wet hair to lie over my left shoulder. The hand lingers on that shoulder, a large hand with strong pale fingers, and I turn my head just enough to rub my cheek against those fingers. _

_A gasp comes from behind me, almost at my ear, and I feel lips at the nape of my neck; soft, dry lips brushing wet skin. I tremble wildly, but not with fear, and my hands slip from the rock wall. I sink backward, unafraid, into strong arms that not only brace but welcome me –_

I wake with a start, flexing my shoulder blades against the mattress to catch myself. It's a little after sunrise. I'm alone in my bed, the covers tucked snugly around me, but I can still smell Peeta: the heady yet comforting scent of honey, cream, and cloves drenching warm skin.

It takes a moment to recall that I used his soap last night – the slippery pale gold I lathered on in my dream. My skin was saturated with it. It's _me_ that I smell. Peeta was never here.

But _someone_ was.

I turn onto my side and lean up on an elbow, contemplating the other side of the bed, which has been neatly made once more. Someone is coming to my bed in the dark of night, lying beneath the covers, then rising before I wake and tidying their side of the bed so it appears no one was ever there. But which of the three can it be?

Lavinia seems the likeliest, especially after last night. She knew I was afraid – of Peeta's expectations and being drugged to fulfill them – and did everything she could to reassure me. Maybe she thought it would help for me not to sleep alone.

Now I think on it: it _did_ help. I don't know whether it was the luxurious bed or the company or a combination of the two, but I've slept better since coming to Peeta's house than I ever have in my life. Both last night and the night before, I slept soundly; deep and long. I was warm and full and comfortable and, despite my fears when awake, untroubled by nightmares. And really, I'm not accustomed to sleeping alone. I've shared a bed with Prim for as long as I can remember, and I'd even half-wished for a bed partner my first night here.

I stroke my fingers over the pillow opposite me, imagining the cheek of my silent companion against the silky cotton, and wonder if it really _matters_ who it is. In the dark of night, someone comes quietly to this enormous bed to share my covers and our body heat. They don't come near me or interfere with me in any way, and their presence provides a certain comfort, at least to my sleeping mind.

Maybe they think I'm lonely. Peeta knows I used to sleep with Prim, after all, and arranging for a bed partner might simply be another of his unexpected kindnesses. _Or maybe it's _them _who's lonely,_ I consider, recalling that sad low moan my first night here, _and my presence is a comfort to _them_._ In any case, this bed is far too big – too lush – too _much_ – for just one undersized Seam girl.

I slip from the bed, frowning a little in thought, and pad over to the fireplace, where an new assortment of clothing is warming on the rack for me to choose from. If yesterday's garments were colored like the woods, the choices today are like dusk and smoke. There's a beautiful deep red sweater and another in a silvery shade of lilac, an undershirt the color of a storm cloud, a pair of crisp gray trousers, and a knee-length skirt of kitten-soft gray wool, patterned in a muted red-and-purple plaid that would complement either of the sweaters. Alongside the skirt are a thick pair of pearl-gray tights and leggings of a sort of dusty charcoal color, and below are the black buckle shoes and a pair of lavender-gray socks.

My frown deepens. Except for the shoes, not one piece of clothing here is a repeat from yesterday's offerings. Despite Peeta's remark about there being more clothes in the dresser, I'd never expected to be given so _much_. Prim and I could dress ourselves for a year with just the clothing I was offered yesterday and today, and something tells me Peeta's provided far more than I've already seen.

I go to the dresser nearest the bed, feeling slightly guilty, and slide open the drawers for a peek. The top drawer, to my surprise, is mostly empty, holding Mom's camisole and little shorts – Lavinia must have washed them after my shower – Mom and Dad's precious handkerchiefs, and the underwear I brought from home, all folded neatly and placed with care. The next drawer down is filled with dozens of pairs of socks – long, short, thin, thick, knobby-woven – and tights. The one below it is packed to the brim with sweaters, and the bottom drawer holds trousers and leggings. While there's a wide array of colors and styles, all of the garments are subtle, natural – _comfortable_ – shades. Nothing is bright or garish – nothing out of character for dark, silent Katniss Everdeen to wear.

And what's more, the clothing I brought from home has pride of place in each drawer. Dad's worn sweaters – and Prims's tiny yellow one – are folded atop their Merchant-quality counterparts, as are my faded trousers and socks, and my scuffed school shoes have been set to one side of the dresser, awaiting use.

I wonder suddenly what became of Dad's thermals and go around the bed to the far dresser. Its top drawer contains five or six long-sleeved undershirts along with those threadbare thermals, and the second holds the softest, most beautiful nightclothes I've ever seen. Nightgowns, mostly, though I note a few shirt-and-trouser combinations too, all in a blossoming garden of patterns and hues, and several boast little trimmings of colorful embroidery, ribbons, or lace.

My breath catches at the sight and my cheeks grow warm. Peeta bought me nightgowns…_pretty_ nightgowns. Pretty, startlingly feminine things to wear – over my bare skin – as I sleep. My cheeks flare hotter and I quickly close the drawer.

Even when Dad was alive, pajamas were an unnecessary indulgence. As soon as I outgrew my baby clothes, I slept in thermals. _You'll be just as warm in long-handles and a pair of stout socks,_ Dad would remind me, time and time again. _And just think if there was a fire! – _a genuine fear in the Seam; whole rows of houses might be wiped out in an hour by one stray spark – _While everyone else scrambles for their trousers, you can step into your boots and run straight out, snug as a bug._

Prim, of course, grew into my childhood thermals, and I grew into Dad's. On warm nights we slept in our underthings or clothes that were too worn to wear for school any longer. Only Mom had pretty nightclothes, and she didn't wear them often. On those nights she unplaited her hair, even as she braided Prim's and mine more neatly, and splashed at her neck and wrists with floral water – lavender or chamomile or, most often, her beloved sweet cicely. She seemed just like a princess in one of Dad's old tales as she bent over Prim's and my tiny bunk in the bedroom we all shared, her long silky hair brushing my face and her skin smelling sweetly of fragrant herbs.

Those were the nights where murmurs turned to gasps and muted whimpers and the creaky protests of bedsprings, and the mornings that followed saw my mother rising early and dreamlike, sunlight dancing off her tangled fair hair and milk-white skin. She hummed softly on those mornings as she reached beneath the blankets or over the bedside to retrieve her nightgown. Sometimes she kissed Dad awake, her pale form luminous as candle-glow beside his olive skin and coal-black hair. Most of the time he sleepily returned the kiss, or tugged her down for even more kisses. Once, he pressed a languid kiss to the rosy tip of her bare breast, and I hid my face in the pillow for many nights afterward, thoroughly mortified.

I think I was eight at the time, and Prim an oblivious slugabed of four, huddled tightly against my back with all the coziness of a warm boulder. I knew Mom and Dad were affectionate and very much in love, but they sometimes did the most bizarre things, especially in those unguarded moments of sunrise. It was several months after Dad died when I finally learned about sex in school, and much later still before I connected it with the moans and pants and rapid, rhythmic squeaking of springs that had come from my parents' bed. I still didn't understand it, but I knew that was what they had been doing.

Mom wore her prettiest nightgown almost ceaselessly, night and day, after Dad died. She sat on their bed, feet tucked beneath her, running a comb through her lank hair over and over again. Sometimes she even put on her floral water, her unseeing eyes fixed on the empty place beside her. I remember wondering if it would bring Dad back, all those sweet special things she did just for him, but always I woke to find her alone, her arms wrapped around his pillow and her face buried in its scent.

Shrugging off the memories – and the slight stinging in my eyes – I try the third drawer and find it half-full of skirts. Some are long, like the green plaid one I was offered yesterday, but most appear to be around knee-length, like the one from today's selections. I suppose I should have guessed after seeing all the tights; still, I can't help but shake my head. I never, _ever_ wear skirts, except on Reaping Day, and this past summer, of course, I wore Mom's blue dress.

I crouch down to slide open the last drawer and find, more peculiarly still, a few neatly folded dresses. Mom's leaf green one is at the top, of course, and the others – forest green, deep blue, dove gray, and a dusty shade of rose – are plain and very simply cut.

I wonder suddenly if I'm meant to look pretty; if that's the reasoning behind the clothes that fill this dresser. Why else would Peeta buy me such things? _Does he _want _to see me in a skirt?_ I ask myself. _To see my legs?_

I laugh at my own foolishness and close the drawer, straightening from my crouch. My legs are spindly as a doe's this winter – without the muscular bulk of its strong flanks, of course – and downy as a baby bird. Peeta will have no interest in them, nor any other part of my scrawny body. The skirts and dresses were probably provided as a courtesy, nothing more.

I return to the clothes on the warming rack and find myself, for the first time in my life, uncertain about what to wear. The silvery lilac sweater reminds me of shadows on snow, but the red one is as deep and saturated in hue as ripe currants. And yet, it's a quiet color. I can hide in it. The lilac is subtle, but there's a slight shimmer to the weave; the firelight winks off tiny silvery threads, catching the eye.

I hold the red sweater up to me in front of the mirror, and for a split second I see what Madge claimed when she brought me the clothes just…two days ago? My eyes look darker, my features striking, my skin almost…_radiant._ With my hair still in its loose braid, soft around my face, I look like someone else entirely. A woman – not a gaunt, scowling child – with solemn smoky eyes and a complexion like strong, creamy tea. For some reason, the realization makes me deeply uncomfortable.

I debate my clothing choices for another minute or two before finally settling on what I knew I'd choose all along: the red sweater and gray trousers. I rebraid my still-sleek hair, though not as tightly as usual, and tell myself it feels better this way.

I dip briefly into the bathroom before heading downstairs and find myself hesitating in front of the cave shower. The glass doors are open, the floor and rock walls beaded with water, and the scent of Peeta – not merely of his soap, but of his body; the bright, warm musk of _boy_ – lingers in the enclosed space. Unbidden, my eyes drift over the bench at the back of the cave and I quickly turn away, my cheeks warming.

I'm unprepared for the sensory aspect of living with a man, let alone sharing something as intimate as a bathroom with one. I've spent very little of my sixteen years around a male of any age, except for my father, and the way he smelled, looked, and felt was simply _Dad_. And there's something almost sexless about Gale, with his feline build, swift reflexes, and silent tread. As though he's first and foremost an animal, a skillful predator and scavenger; a human second, and male last of all. I feel the same way about myself, really. My gender is incidental; meaningless in terms of survival. Gale and I are like halves of some strange dark whole, like twin fox kits or a pair of rangy young lynxes.

In contrast, Peeta is solidly human and anything _but_ sexless. Where Gale could be my brother, with his shadowy coloring and lean physique, Peeta's the complete opposite of me: fair and stocky and muscular, with strong, gentle hands and – I recall with an odd little tremor – impossibly warm skin. Where Gale smells of crisp air and coal fires, Peeta smells of bread and cakes and that heady golden soap, the scent of which still lingers on my own skin. He's so broad and blond and radiantly _male_ that I feel delicate and feminine – uncomfortably so – in comparison.

I slip out of the bathroom, shaking my head, and tell myself it's just the novelty of sharing this huge, quiet house with a Merchant boy. I'll get used to how Peeta smells and feels – how a room feels after he's left it – soon enough, and I won't notice it anymore. Or dream about it.

As I did yesterday, I smell breakfast on my way downstairs, and while my stomach gives an instinctive, hopeful tug, my reaction is much less desperate today. I wonder whether that's good or bad; if I'm expecting too much from Peeta – unlikely, considering how eager he was to feed me yesterday – or if I've grown soft after just one day of rich food. I smell cured meat again, though not sausage; griddle cakes, or something like them; and berries, simmering and extra sweet. My steps quicken in pace.

I arrive at the kitchen doorway to find Peeta setting the table and whistling cheerfully. He's wearing a sweater the brilliant blue of morning-glories today; it turns his hair the white-gold of dry winter grasses and his pale skin almost translucent. I wonder what it does to his eyes.

His sleeves are pushed to his elbows again, his district token – the red scrap of cloth – still tied at his left wrist, and there's a batter-stained towel tucked into the waistband of his trousers, just below the splash of flour at his midsection. He looks mussed and cozy and oddly…fatherlike. As though there should be curly heads peeping up in the chairs and small chubby fists pounding the table with an endearing impatience for _Food, Papa! Now!_

He hasn't seen me yet, and I feel a bizarre compulsion to slip behind him and curl my arms around his waist. My dad used to do that to my mom when she was at the sink or the stove, her hands busy with something or other, and press a kiss to her neck or her cheek. Sometimes she gave a squawk of surprise or a laugh, depending on how stealthy he was, and at other times she leaned back against him with a happy sigh. I wonder what Peeta would do if I surprised him with a playful hug and kiss.

"Good morning," I blurt, my cheeks flushing at the direction of my thoughts.

Peeta looks up in surprise. "Good morning, Katniss," he says, and his smile falters for just a moment. I wonder if he's only pretending to be happy to see me – most likely – or if, by some strange chance, he saw for that moment what I saw in the mirror a few minutes ago: an older Katniss, softer and feminine. If so, he liked her about as much as I did. I tug the end of my loose braid subconsciously and avoid his eyes. They're forget-me-not blue this morning, bright yet soft, and my face grows even hotter beneath their gaze.

"I made Prim some shortbread," he says, and I'm forced to look up as he comes over to hand me a small parcel. It's about the size and weight of a brick and still warm. The frosted white paper wrap has my sister's name on it, not written put _painted_ with delicate precision, surrounded by sunny yellow primrose flowers. "I thought Lavinia could take it with your letter when she goes to town today," he adds. "A little present for her, from here."

It's the perfect gift. Prim will cry just at the wrap; she'll open it carefully and trim around the piece with her name, then press it between schoolbooks and save it forever. And the shortbread she'll break into dozens of tiny pieces and share with absolutely everyone, only taking some for herself at the end. One brick of shortbread will make Prim happy for no less than a year.

And yet the idea of it fills me with an angry sort of embarrassment…because it's not a gift from me; it's yet another from _Peeta_. Peeta, who's already given her a coat and boots and peppermints and a sleigh ride, to say nothing of food and coal and a promised new house. What had I been thinking, to send Prim a present? Anything – _everything_ – I give her now will come from Peeta. Even a pinecone from the woods would technically be his. His house, his land, his woods. I'd never have come to this place if not for him, and nothing I give Prim from here can ever truly be from me.

My thoughts must show on my face, because when I look up from the parcel, Peeta's cheerful expression is crestfallen. "It's…not right, is it?" he says. "Not what you wanted. I thought – since you liked the shortbread so much – but I can make something else –"

"No," I interrupt him, too sharply, and feel my face, throat, and chest mottle with furious color.

"I don't mind," he says gently. "Not at all. Is that what's bothering you? I'll make anything you want and we can send it to her. The shortbread was just an idea."

This only makes me feel worse. "It's _fine_," I croak and look away, my flushed skin painfully hot.

"No, it's not," he says, but so kindly that I feel a stupid urge to cry. "Please tell me what's wrong."

I look up, scowling to cover the tremor in my lip, and feel my anger dissipate at the sight of Peeta's sad, gentle face. For one cynical moment I tell myself that this is how he won his Games: by being so ridiculously kind that even a raging Career melted at one look. "It's not from me," I tell him crossly.

He shakes his head, smiling a little. "Katniss, I told you yesterday," he says patiently. "Everything in this house belongs to you. If you want Prim to have shortbread, it's a gift from you, just as if you bought it from the bakery."

"That doesn't make any sense," I counter, frowning.

"It _does_, actually," he says, his smile growing wider. "Do you want Prim to have shortbread? Do you think she'd like it?"

I think of my tiny sister, taking mouse-like nibbles of the treat she won't be able to believe is entirely hers. Crumbly, buttery, famous Mellark's shortbread. "She'll love it," I admit. "But –"

"Well, that's a coincidence," Peeta says, grinning now, and he sets a hand on the little parcel, his strong fingers brushing mine in the process. "I just made this batch of shortbread. We'll send it to her."

His grin is triumphant but his eyes are wary, hopeful even, waiting for me to concede, and I realize that if what he says is true – if, by some absurd twist, this house and its contents truly belong to _me_, not to Peeta – then the shortbread _is_ a gift from me, just as a pinecone would have been from him. I don't like it – it's contrary to everything I know about trading and serves to remind me yet again of how staggeringly high my debt to him already is – but it's clear that he's not going to back down. He's determined to be generous, and if I can just overlook my stupid pride for a moment, I'll see that I'm standing in the way of Prim getting something wonderful. Which was the whole point of our bargain, after all.

"Okay," I sigh. "Let's send her the shortbread."

Peeta beams at me, as though that one reluctant _yes_ has reaffirmed his whole existence. "Thank you, Katniss," he says, and ushers me into the chair I sat in yesterday. "Can I have breakfast with you?" he asks.

"You're baking for my sister; I suppose you can do whatever you want," I answer shortly, but without any real malice. "And you don't have to ask. It's…I mean, _I_ should be asking _you_, not the other way around."

"Not if it's your house," he says, his eyes glinting merrily.

Once again, he prepares me a plate heaped with decadent foods, first and foremost among them tender slices of ham. I've seen ham at the butcher's, of course, but never had the pleasure of tasting it, and the robust combination of salty-smoky-sweet almost brings tears to my eyes. Next is something like griddle cakes, only they're very thin and served rolled up, filled with sweet creamy cheeses and drenched with warm blackberries in syrup. A single rich bite makes me groan with pleasure.

There are no eggs today, but Peeta's hardly stinted with the menu. At the center of the table is a hearty loaf of brown bread, bursting with seeds and wheat berries, and a pot of golden honey butter – a specialty from the creamery. Greta, the daughter, used to buy my wild honey expressly for that purpose, and one time she included a tiny pot of it with my payment. It made even tessera bread delicious. I slather it eagerly over Peeta's fresh bread, to the sound of his delighted laughter.

I choose tea today, a smoky golden brew, and Peeta serves it to me, to my surprise, in my battered little mug from home. He or Lavinia must have brought it down from my room and made it a place in the cupboard, as they did with my clothing in the dressers. It doesn't fit at this table of handsome, pine-bedecked dishes and bountiful portions of heady food, but I suppose _I_ don't either. And seeing it tucked among Peeta's fine things is a bit like seeing Dad's hunting jacket hanging next to Peeta's bearskin. It belongs here, somehow…so maybe I do too.

"Why is Lavinia going to town?" I ask after a little. It's none of my business, and yet I'm curious. Peeta was in town the day before yesterday to collect me and returned with a sleigh laden with parcels. I can't think what business he would have back in the district so soon.

"We need eggs," he says with a straight face. "And milk. These Capitol crepes take a lot."

I chuckle in spite of myself. "You need chickens and a goat," I tell him.

"I might at that," he concedes, grinning. "Anyway: Lavinia's picking up a few things, but this trip is more for your family. I wasn't able to spend much time in their new house before we left, so she's going to spruce up the place before they get there."

It's Monday, I realize: Mom and Prim are going to visit their new home after school today. I recall everything I've heard of it so far – Marko's comment about being neighbors; Peeta's hints about it being "a short walk" from the bakery, maybe even on the square – and try to guess at where, and what, it will be.

"It's not an especially large place," Peeta tells me, though there's a mischievous light in his eyes, "but I think it'll suit them very well."

Lavinia comes in then, and I very nearly don't recognize her. She's wearing a thick, heartily woven sweater of dark blue with a leather bag slung across her chest, canvas trousers, stout boots, and a little gray cap, with all but a few wisps of her red hair tucked inside. She looks like a boy – and at the same time, utterly adorable. Men will fall over their feet to help her out when she gets to town, Merchant and Seam alike.

An odd impulse makes me glance over at Peeta to see his reaction to her. He's smiling, but he doesn't seem enamored in the least, and I can't think why that would make me feel relieved. "Lavinia, would you deliver this to Katniss's sister when you go to town today?" he asks, holding up the wrapped shortbread. "And Katniss has a letter too."

Lavinia brings her elegant white hands together and mimes reading a book, then raises her brows at Peeta. "At school?" he says. "That should be fine. Katniss?"

I envision Prim in class, receiving a pretty package of shortbread and a letter from me. The surprise will make her day, especially with her already anticipating the visit to their new house. She'll either dance with delight or burst into happy tears. "Sure," I tell him. "Bringing it to school will be fine. I'll go grab the letter."

I jog upstairs and retrieve the thick envelope from the desk – _my_ desk, in my very own room; a notion which still astonishes me. I'm only gone for a minute or two, but when I return to the kitchen, Peeta abruptly stops talking to Lavinia and looks oddly…guilty. I caught the words "those sorts of colors" as I walked in, which hardly seems incriminating, and Lavinia's expression gives nothing away as she folds and pockets the scrap of paper that they'd appeared to be looking at. She takes Prim's letter with a small smile then gestures to me, questioningly, with one cupped hand. I shake my head in puzzlement.

"She wants to know if you want anything," Peeta says, getting up from the table to hand Lavinia the wrapped shortbread. She tucks it and Prim's letter securely into her leather bag. "They don't go to town too often," he explains. "Once a week, usually, so if you want something – _anything_ – just say so."

I _don't_, and that's the strangest thing of all. Even if I had the nerve, there's nothing I can think to ask for. I have a cozy room full of warm clothes, beautiful new boots and that breathtaking coat, half a dozen products for bathing, more food than I could eat in a lifetime…I may be a servant here, but Peeta's wrapped me in luxury. Not only is there nothing I _need_; I can't think of a single thing I _want_.

"I'm fine," I tell them both. "I have more than enough of everything."

Lavinia smiles and gives me an approving little bob of the head. On some level, it feels like I've impressed her.

"Have you got everything?" Peeta asks her. "Pollux loaded the sleigh?"

She grins and nods, gesturing toward the front of the house, and I cross to peek out the kitchen window. Little Rye and the sleigh are waiting at the foot of the stone steps, and Pollux is there too, heavily bundled, checking over the harness and the sleigh's contents. There's a large flat parcel leaning against the seat, and I spy firewood heaped up in the rear compartment.

For one foolish moment I wonder if Peeta's sending the firewood to town to sell – after all, there's a small house's worth of timber stacked behind the stable, and Peacekeepers will pay a small fortune for even a few logs – and then I realize it's for my family, or Peeta's, or maybe both of them. Sweet, clean-burning wood to fuel their fires. Peeta's not taking from the district but giving back – taking care of people who can never even begin to repay him. I look down at my fine new clothes and wonder why that should surprise me.

Lavinia leaves, and Peeta and I finish our breakfast in companionable silence. I offer to clean up afterwards or at least start the dishes, but Peeta refuses, albeit kindly as ever. "I told you: I'm happy to do it," he assures me, taking the plate from my stubborn hands. "And I thought you might like to explore the woods today."

"You'd let me do that?" I ask in surprise. I'd assumed there was some sort of condition built into our bargain; I had to stay within sight of the house, or something like that.

Peeta looks strangely sad at the question. "Of course," he says. "I know you're happiest in the woods. It's…well, part of the reason I wanted you to come here. To live in the woods."

I'd wondered at this, but hearing it from Peeta reminds me once more how very well he seems to know me. And yet…it's more than that. Not only does he _know_ things about me – anyone might, and use them against me; they're weaknesses, really – but he _cares_. He knows what I like and has surrounded me with it. He knows when I want something – before _I_ do, even – and provides it for me.

And it makes no sense whatsoever. Peeta's not a friend of mine, so why would he know so much about me? And I'm a servant; he hired me – _bought_ me, really. Why should it matter to him what I like, let alone _want_?

"Oh," I say at last. "Um…thank you. I'd love to look around the woods for a little – if you don't have something else for me to do?"

It's starting to niggle, the fact that he hasn't assigned me any chores and appears in no hurry to do so. And from what I've seen so far, the house and grounds are very well-tended, so it's not like anything is lacking. But Lavinia's going to town today, so there must be tasks of hers that need doing?

"I want you to be happy and comfortable," Peeta answers simply, smiling now, "and enjoy yourself. If you'd rather stay in, or skate, or – do anything else – feel free. The day is yours."

It's another day off, then. Unexpected, but not to be scoffed at. Skating is a tempting prospect, but I've never been to the woods on this side of the lake. Never been half this far from town. "I'd like to see the woods," I admit.

"Would you take Pollux with you, then?" he asks. "Just for today."

He winces even before I bristle – he must know I prefer to be on my own in the woods, or with someone whose presence complements mine, like Gale – and adds quickly, "I just thought – till you get familiar with our part of the woods – he could help look out for you."

"Do I need looking out for?" I challenge.

Peeta chuckles, and I realize what a picture I must make. A small girl, slight as a shadow, fiercely asserting to a stocky, powerful young man that she'll take on an entirely new forest in the dead of winter without help or a guide of any kind. I'm like a little kitchen cat – and a scrawny one at that – facing off with a mountain lion, telling him she'll nose her way through his territory with nary a worry, thank you very much. Even Dad would have shaken his head at me and wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.

"Probably not," Peeta says. "But I'd feel better, just the same."

This unexpected confidence in my abilities, feigned or otherwise, softens me toward his suggestion. Pollux isn't so bad, really. He's funny and friendly and broadly built, maybe as strong as Peeta. It might not be so bad to have someone like that along. And honestly, Peeta's giving me the day off to play in the woods. How can I object to a request that he's probably only made for my benefit?

"Okay," I concede, for the second time this morning. "I'll take Pollux."

Peeta sighs. "Thanks, Katniss," he says, and his lips twist in a crooked grin. "Between you and me, he'll be glad of the company."

As I bundle up in the mudroom, I think about what Peeta said. I imagine an Avox's life is a lonely, quiet one, and Pollux must spend most of his time in or near the stable with Rye as a constant companion. I remember how eager he was to "talk" with me, to interact, even start a snowball fight. I'm not accustomed to having friends, let alone male ones, but Pollux can certainly out-silence even taciturn Gale. I chuckle at the thought. Unless Pollux walks heavily, he's unlikely to frighten away game, and he's big enough to ward off smaller predators who might see a scrawny girl as easy prey.

_Only I'm not hunting, _I remind myself as I take the snow-path to the stable, abruptly aware of my bowless hands and the absence of the arrow-sheath's comforting weight between my shoulder blades. I don't know if Peeta wants me to or will even allow it. He knows I hunt, of course, and that I brought my bow with me, but I have no idea where he's put it, or if I'll ever get it back.

Pollux is at the back of the stable, sharpening the axe, when I arrive – he must have chopped the firewood into smaller chunks to fit more into the sleigh – and he smiles at me, tossing the whetstone onto the workbench to give me a little wave. He's dressed almost identically to Lavinia today: coatless, owing to the pleasant warmth of the stable, he wears a heavy gray sweater, rough canvas trousers and work boots, and a stocking cap tugged down over his sandy hair. He's less burly without his thick coat, but not much. I suspect he could give any of the Mellarks a run for their money.

"Peeta said I could check out the woods today but he wants you to come with," I say without preamble. "Is that okay?"

He grins, nodding, and directs me to a cupboard near the workbench that I'd missed yesterday. It holds two pairs of vaguely fish-shaped netted frames, about as long as my arm – snowshoes, I realize. Dad had a pair, ages ago – he used to hold me by the hands and let me step on his feet as we trekked through deep snow – but they'd been lost, probably tucked safely inside a hollow tree somewhere, after he died. I haven't even thought of snowshoes in years but have to admit they're a wise idea, especially out here, where snow can easily drift as high as my waist. Pollux helps me strap them on – it's a peculiar sensation; I feel like a duck with my newly wide, flat feet – before fastening on his own, then he tugs on and buttons up his parka and shoulders the freshly sharpened axe.

I tense in spite of myself. Burly Pollux doesn't frighten me in the least. Armed Pollux, however jovial and good-natured, reminds me too much of a District Seven tribute or two I've seen over the years, and the slight girls who followed them into the woods never came out again. A human trunk and limbs are far more fragile than a tree's, and probably easier to sever when it's their life or your own.

But Peeta's a Victor. He must have at least _some_ of the healthy distrust that comes with outlasting twenty-three other people. And surely the boy who bought me two dressers full of clothes, to say nothing of the stunning coat that encases my small body at this very moment, wouldn't insist on sending me into the woods with a man who would promptly kill me…would he? "Is that for lunch," I jest warily, motioning toward the blade resting against Pollux's shoulder, "or to keep me in line?"

He rolls his eyes and sets aside the axe as casually as if it were a broom, then tugs out his slate and chalk and writes: _PROTECT YOU__, SILLY._

I've never been called "silly" by anyone but Prim, and certainly not by a grown man. But I suppose my fears _are_ a little ridiculous. If Pollux really wanted to kill me, he could have done so yesterday – with ease – while we were alone in the stable. Not to mention, a man as in debt as he is to Peeta would hardly kill the girl that Peeta went to costly lengths to obtain. _Especially not after observing that her happiness makes Peeta happy,_ whispers a small voice in my mind. I shrug it off, mildly uncomfortable at the reminder.

"Thank you," I tell him honestly. A strong man with an axe is a priceless asset in a strange forest, though I can't help wondering whether the weapon was Pollux's own idea or Peeta previously told him to bring it, anticipating an occasion like this. After all, I hadn't said a word about "looking out for" me in the woods, yet Pollux had picked up the axe like it was the logical next step. "You want to lead the way?" I ask.

We leave the stable by the back door and are following a snow-path toward the edge of what must be the garden – I'm guessing the route we're taking into the woods begins on the other side of it – when I see Peeta coming down the back steps of the house, maybe twenty feet away. He's coatless and carrying a flat baking pan, on which I spy pieces of bright orange pumpkin rind, eggshells, and apple cores, along with several small items in varying shades of brown. Kitchen scraps, of course, but I can't think what he's doing with them out here in the snow.

My family rarely had scraps of any sort – poor as we were, we ate every last bit of food we could salvage, especially after Dad died – and when I _did_ get hold of something with an inedible rind or pulp, it went on Mom's potted herbs as compost. But it's the wrong time of year for that; far too early to do his garden any good.

I pause on the path, curious and a little captivated, and watch. Peeta carries the pan into the garden and sets it in the snow, then begins breaking up and scattering the contents. One of the brown things looks to be the heel of yesterday's bread; he crumbles it in his hands and sprinkles it around the pan. It's like a ritual of some kind, and I'd laugh if it wasn't so wasteful. I wonder if it's a result of his Games – a strange mental quirk – or of having more food than he knows what to do with. And then he backs away carefully…and the birds come.

The sparrows – fat, cheerful puffkins of brown and gray, hopping though the snow – are the first to arrive, followed quickly by several blackbirds, a blue jay, a pair of mourning doves, and even, in a startling flash of red, a cardinal. A dozen or more birds descend on the kitchen scraps, chittering eagerly, before Peeta has taken more than a few steps away. It's almost as though they were waiting –

_Oh, stupid Katniss. Stupid, _stupid_ Katniss. Of course_ they were waiting._ Because Peeta feeds them._ He feeds wild birds.

My heart stills in my chest as I stare, immobilized, at the scene. I _eat_ birds. Not songbirds, of course, but blackbirds are little different, and there are four of them greedily, happily snapping up Peeta's breadcrumbs and pecking away at the eggshells. It doesn't make me _bad_ – almost any wild creature will eat another when it's starving – but it makes him _good_. Better than anyone I've ever met before. Better than I ever imagined anyone could be.

My paralysis breaks in a sudden flood of hot tears and I duck behind a tree, gasping with sobs. How can this stupid Merchant boy make me cry just by _being_? I press a fist to my mouth to stifle the sound, but the wetness from my eyes and nose drips onto the fine soft leather of my new glove, and I can't – _can't_ – ruin that beautiful gift from Peeta. I frantically tug off the gloves and shove them into a fur-lined pocket, crying like I haven't cried since Peeta's Reaping Day, and rub at my hot face with my bare hands. I don't care about wiping my runny nose or streaming eyes; I'm just trying to get myself under some kind of control so I can catch up to Pollux.

And then, as if summoned by the thought, Pollux is here, crouched beside the tree where I'm huddled. His blue eyes are sympathetic and free of mocking or judgment as he offers me a crumpled red pocket handkerchief – which, of course, only makes me cry harder.

Because Pollux is yet another example of how incomprehensibly _good_ Peeta is. In what he must have thought were his last days, Peeta took the time to have a conversation – to strike up a friendship – with a mute slave. _He's funny_, he told me yesterday. _We ended up passing notes like schoolboys. _And after the Games, when any other person would've been thinking of their missing limb, of their relief to be alive and safe and going home, Peeta had fought to take Pollux and Lavinia with him. To save two mutilated young people from a life of servitude to the cruel Capitol. And his generosity hadn't ended there. One look at their living quarters, their clothing, their faces is sufficient to tell how very well Peeta has taken care of them. He's provided them with every comfort, including privacy and company in turns, and is obviously well-liked by both of them.

I take Pollux's handkerchief in both shaky hands and wipe my eyes and cheeks, over and over again, until the tears begin to ebb. Finally I blow my nose, but I don't pocket the handkerchief just yet. I'm not sure this crippling wave of emotion is quite over.

"Why is he so _good_?" I choke.

I expect Pollux to reach for his slate and write a clever explanation, but instead he gives me a sad smile and rests a hand over his heart. I don't know Avox shorthand, but I think I understand, and agree with, everything this implies. Heart. Compassion._ Love._ Peeta Mellark may well be the embodiment of these things.

"Even wild birds?" I whisper.

Pollux shrugs. This time he takes out the slate. _Lonely_, he writes. I wonder if he means Peeta or the birds, and realize it might well apply to both. _Hungry,_ he adds below it, gesturing at the garden, where the birds – twice as many now – are continuing their happy feast.

I think of the eleven-year-old boy who took a blow from his mother so he could feed a starving Seam girl and suspect it took just one shivering sparrow pecking hopefully through his dormant garden to make Peeta decide to feed _every_ bird, or at least as many as he could. And I may well be wrong, but I imagine he deliberately comes out without his bearskin so as not to confuse or frighten them.

Pollux offers a hand and I shift shakily up from my crouch, steadied by his other hand behind my elbow. "I should have gone skating," I joke feebly, sniffling.

He gives a rumbling, throaty chuckle and retrieves his axe from the snow, then gestures into the woods, raising his brows.

This I can interpret. "Yes," I say firmly. "Let's go."

As comfortable as I am in Peeta's house – anywhere on his property, really – a feeling of mild euphoria descends as I cross into the woods. The woods was like a parent to me, especially after Dad died; a second father, maybe, nourishing me with its bounty of plants and animals. This isn't _my_ woods, of course, but it feels like home just the same.

I notice straightaway that Peeta's woods is glutted with pines, which reassures my old hunger instincts. If all else fails, we'll always have pine bark. I've eaten plenty of it on hollow days – _and so,_ I recall, _has Peeta. _His arena was not unlike these woods. I wonder for the first time how he can bear to live out here, let alone in a house rich with the sights, scents, and textures of the woods. He could have had one of the neat white houses in the Victor's Village and made it every bit as luxurious, maybe more so. Why did he choose this remote place, so far from his family and friends?

But I have little time to contemplate this, because just then my eyes light on what might be a stand of sugar maples. I approach one, duck-like in my snowshoes, and contemplate the bark: rough and furrowed, patterned in uneven vertical strips that look like you could peel them off with ease. I step back from the trunk and hop up to catch the lowest branch, tugging it down for a closer look. The twigs are ruddy brown, the buds conical and almost sharp. I make a sound that might be a squeal and let the branch spring back, narrowly missing Pollux, who has backtracked to see what so fascinated me.

"Maple trees," I tell him, grinning, as I move on to identify the next ragged trunk. "If we can get hold of a spile, we can tap them in a month or so and make syrup. There'll be plenty for Peeta to use or sell…" I trail off, my enthusiasm dimming slightly. Peeta doesn't _need_ to sell or trade. Maple syrup might be liquid gold to me – Dad made his most profitable trades ever on the bucketfuls we harvested – but to Peeta it's probably just a novelty.

A pleasant novelty, I hope. Dad's spiles, like his snowshoes, were lost when he died, and I imagine no one in the district has had wild-harvested maple syrup since. I think of introducing Peeta to "sugar snow," of the wonder that might appear on his face at the first taste, and a curious, happy warmth kindles in my stomach. I can't think why I would want to share such a humble pleasure with Peeta, nor why his reaction should matter so much to me.

As we continue deeper into the woods, I anticipate and carefully examine all evidence of animals, be it tracks or scat, fallen feathers or damaged bark, and am startled by the apparent lack of predators. There will be owls, of course – there's a bounty of rabbits, squirrels, even mice for them to feed on – but beyond that, meat eaters are noticeably absent. Either they're hibernating, or they simply don't inhabit this area. I see soft clusters of rabbit prints, the three-toed indents of wild turkeys, even – I dance inwardly at the thought – the split-hooved tracks of several deer, but not a single paw print breaks the snow. No wild dog, no lynx, no cougar…in light of the rich availability of prey, is it possible? Has nature allotted Peeta some kind of haven here? Or have they been frightened off by the scent and sight of a more formidable predator – the lingering presence of _bear_ in Peeta's coat?

"No predators?" I ask Pollux, frowning. "Dogs? Big cats?" I mime a lynx, with its tufted ears.

He chuckles and shakes his head.

"Wolverines?" I whisper. I haven't thought of this till now, and the possibility of one or more living so close to Peeta chills my skin with a combination of fear and fury. I remember too well the sight of that pointed muzzle clamped around Peeta's leg, the tearing jerk of its head, the rush of bright blood on snow and sweet, gentle Peeta's piercing screams of pain. I had screamed then too, bunching our tattered old quilt to my mouth to muffle the sound.

I want to go back to the house so badly that for a moment I can't breathe. I need to make sure Peeta's safe, and protect him if he's not. I'm shaking and very cold; I feel like I might vomit or faint. His name pulses at my temples, drums in my throat. _Peeta Peeta Peeta._ The wolverine killed his last ally, the red-haired girl from Four. It went for her first – the weaker of the two; an easy target – and it was Peeta trying to help that cost him his leg. Her last act – fueled by raw adrenaline; she was near bloodless by then – was pushing the branch within reach of his hand. The heavy limb that he used to club the wolverine to death.

Peeta bent over the girl at the end, his leg soaked with crimson and steaming in the bitter cold as he lay beside her. He traced her blue lips with a shaking hand as she gasped out her last words. _Peeta…needs to be you…go home…too much love to die…_

I abruptly come back to myself and realize I'm crouched over my snowshoed feet, trembling hard. Pollux is cautiously rubbing my back, his axe discarded and his face very worried. "I'm okay," I croak. "Just bad memories."

He nods, his eyes suddenly haunted, and I remember that this former Capitol slave has a much worse past to draw nightmares from. I feel weak for my behavior, but the memory struck so swift, hard and deep. "The w-wolverine," I explain, choking a little on the word. "From Peeta's Games." I feel a renewed urgency to get back to the house and try to stand, but my legs wobble and give at the attempt and I fall back against Pollux.

To my surprise, he doesn't laugh at my clumsiness but curls a supportive arm around my shoulders, bracing me, then reaches with his other hand to write something in the snow in front of us: _NONE HERE._

"Are you _sure_?" I whisper, hugging my knees.

He picks up the axe one-handed and lays it over the words. _IF THERE WERE,_ he writes next to the handle, then raises fierce eyes to mine.

And I understand, I think. Though I've yet to see them interact, it's plain as day that Pollux is devoted to Peeta, with the kind of unflinching loyalty that the Capitol tries to bribe and force from all of us. I suspect there's very little he wouldn't do for the boy who saved him from a life of slavery, who brought him to this quiet, beautiful place and gave him freedom and comfort, fulfilling work and a living space all his own. He'd kill every wolverine in Panem if that's what it took to protect his young master.

_And so would you,_ whispers a voice in my head, but I push it aside. What Pollux is expressing is a something I don't quite understand and can't always identify, and yet it's oddly clear to me right now. It's exactly how I feel for Prim, and the reason I agreed to Peeta's bargain. "You love him," I say.

Pollux holds my gaze for a very long moment, then leans forward to dust out his previous words and write three more: _SO DO YOU._

My breath leaves me in a funny little rush. I can't think how to reply, and Pollux isn't looking at me, which somehow makes it worse. He means, of course, that I feel for Peeta like he does – a combination of gratitude and loyalty and protectiveness – and yet it doesn't sound like that. Not written in the snow of Peeta's woods, with fear and grief for him still sending tremors through my body.

"No, I don't," I manage at last, and lean forward to wipe out those unsettling words, but Pollux stops me, his gloved hand closing over mine. He does look at me then, his eyes no longer fierce but solemn, and shakes his head slowly. He helps me to my feet, shoulders the axe once more, and we move on, leaving his strange message in the snow for all the woods to see.

We walk for another half hour through the seemingly endless forest before I announce that it's getting near lunchtime and we should head back. In reality, I can't bear to take another step _away._ I've enjoyed far too much leisure time already, and I still feel the lingering unease for Peeta's safety that's tugged at me since the memory of the wolverine. But of course, I tell Pollux none of this as we make our way back toward the house. I don't pause to study trees or animal signs this time, and we reach the garden in a little under an hour.

There are a few persistent sparrows still pecking around Peeta's tray for crumbs and two quarrelsome blackbirds fighting over a hollowed piece of pumpkin shell, but that's not what captures my attention. Peeta is sitting on the back steps, still coatless, with a chipmunk perched on his knee, eagerly taking tidbits from his open hand.

For a very long moment I wonder if I'm going mad. I first learned stillness in the woods by watching Dad tame a chipmunk to eat from his hand. The scene itself is not unfamiliar, but the participants are. Peeta may be a Victor, but he's still a Merchant boy, whose experiences with animals are limited to house pets and food. How can he _possibly_ know how to win the trust of a wild creature? It requires endless patience and gentleness; soft words, careful movements, and plenty of food.

As I come closer, my mind's eye melds this moment with my memory of Dad. Peeta sits beside a black-haired little girl, cupping both of her small hands in one of his and steadying them for the chipmunk. Curious, it climbs from his knee onto their nested hands and begins greedily stuffing its cheek pouches with the seeds the child holds. She gives a squeak of delight and grins up at Peeta. Her eyes are blue.

My gasp dissolves the vision and startles the chipmunk. It scurries down Peeta's leg and vanishes over the side of the steps, but Peeta looks anything but disappointed. "Hey, Katniss," he says, smiling widely up at me. "This little guy smelled your lunch, I think." He peers over the steps, grinning, and dusts the crumbs from his hand in the direction the chipmunk went. "I opened the window while I was baking, just a crack, and I found him sniffing around out here."

"How on earth did you tame a chipmunk?" I blurt.

Behind me, Pollux gives a rumbling laugh and Peeta shakes his head in reply, chuckling himself. "It's pathetic," he admits. "I was eating lunch in the garden this summer –" he gestures at the bench beneath the arch of the trellis – "and I…well, I'd hadn't been sleeping much then, and…I fell asleep" he says sheepishly. "And I woke up to the chipmunk on the bench beside me. I'd fallen asleep with a piece of bread in my hand, and he was being sneaky, taking it from me a nibble at a time, but he was stuffing it all into his cheeks, and his whiskers tickled my hand every time he took a bite." He laughs. "That's what woke me up, actually. I looked down and saw this striped thing hovering over my hand, and I screamed. I honestly thought it was some kind of little mutt-snake. I threw down my food and ran into the house."

Pollux is laughing outright now, and I can't resist smiling myself at the mental image of stocky, powerful Peeta being terrified by a friendly chipmunk. "Long story short, the chipmunk got most of my lunch that day, which was what he wanted," Peeta says, grinning. "And I figured it out quickly enough and tried to see if I could get him to come back when I was awake. It took a little while, but we're friends now. I usually feed him a few times a week."

"And the birds?" I ask quietly.

"Every day," he answers, his voice very soft and his cheeks growing pink. "I, um…I tried not to befriend anything I thought you might hunt."

It barely registers that he plans to allow me to hunt – _expects_ me to do it, even. Animals are not befriended overnight, or even over a short span of days. Peeta's guided his actions for some time in anticipation of me hunting in his woods. But all I can think, even now, is that this impossibly _good_ boy shares his bounty with wild creatures while I kill them for food.

"Is that okay?" he asks.

I look away, my eyes burning. Peeta Mellark is asking my permission to be kind. "Of course," I rasp. I wonder if I'll ever be able to hunt again.

Pollux takes my snowshoes and returns to his loft for lunch, and Peeta and I go into the house. He helps me out of my coat and wrappings in the mudroom, then retrieves my warmed slippers from the living room. I realize that, with Lavinia away for the day, he will have been the one to put them in front of the fire.

He doesn't offer to help me off with my boots and I don't ask. I imagine he's embarrassed by the memory of what happened last time. I perch on the low bench as I undo the laces and tug off each boot in turn, then I step into my slippers and follow him into the kitchen.

He's prepared a full meal today: a buttery soup made of crushed tomatoes and heavy cream, brightened with garlic and basil, and more of his hearty wheat bread, paired with slices of a rich, smoky cheese. It's the perfect combination after a crisp morning in the woods. More than once I catch myself raising the bowl to my lips – I find I could drink this soup like water; a spoonful at a time is hardly sufficient – but Peeta only smiles and nods encouragement.

When I've finished two modest bowlfuls and cleaned up every last drop with my third piece of bread, he gets up to take a plate from the oven: a pile of thick golden brown cookies, marked with a crosshatch pattern on top. I identify their primary ingredient with one sniff and look at him in surprise.

Peanut butter. In District Twelve – or at least, in the Seam – peanut butter is a commodity, a cheap food. It comes on Parcel Day, along with corn syrup and cans of applesauce. More than once I've made a spoonful of it into a meal, paired with lots of mint tea and maybe a thin slice of tessera bread. It's as filling as a boiled egg – maybe more so, with its smooth texture and nutty flavor – and before this moment, I would never have thought of it as anything other than a precious source of protein and nourishing oils. Certainly never as dessert.

I take a hesitant bite of one warm, crumbly cookie and feel my entire body sigh with pleasure. Peeta's taken this humble food and made it into something rich and beautiful that Merchant kids would pay highly for. It might be even better than his shortbread.

"You like them?" he asks hopefully, and grins. "The chipmunk did."

"I love them," I answer around a blissful mouthful of cookie, and reach to the plate for another.

Peeta ladles out two mugs of cider to drink with our cookies, and it tastes even better than yesterday's cup. I'm getting used to the delicious smells of this house, I think; I hadn't even noticed the cider on the stove at breakfast.

As we finish our dessert, I'm reminded of the crock Peeta sent up last night as a bedtime snack. The unfamiliar but comforting dish of bread and soft spices that had somehow tasted like home. Lavinia told me to ask him what it was, and this seems as good a time as any. "Peeta, what was that bread thing you made last night?" I ask. "Baked in the crock, with cinnamon and things."

He smiles at the question, though his bright eyes are suddenly sad. "Bread pudding," he says. "Did you like it?"

He must know I did, since the crock came back to him empty, cleaned even of residue and crumbs. "It was wonderful," I tell him. "I've never had anything like it, but…it tasted like _home_. Comfortable…a-and safe." I blush at my ridiculous words, but Peeta's not laughing. "Does that make any sense at all?"

"It makes complete sense," he says softly. "That's what it's for."

There's a story here, I realize, but Peeta's not volunteering it. He stares down at the tabletop, his brow furrowed, and for a moment he looks like he might cry.

Something squeezes my heart like a massive fist, and I reach across the table to cover Peeta's hand with mine – or rather, as much of it as I can. He starts a little at the touch and looks up at me, his eyes very wide, but he doesn't pull away. "You don't have to say," I tell him.

He shakes his head. "I want to," he says quietly.

"It started with Marko," he begins. "He was…really scared for his first Reaping. He could barely eat for days before, and he threw up as soon as he got home afterward. Sorry," he adds quickly, and I shake my head. I know plenty about Reaping fears and nightmares. I don't know Peeta's oldest brother at all, aside from our interactions the day I left, but his reactions aren't surprising – or uncommon – in the least.

"Anyway, Dad wanted to feed him something to soothe his stomach," Peeta continues, "but Mom never let us have anything from the bakery unless it was really stale. She was a butcher's daughter, so, you know: squeeze out every last bit of profit. Fat and bones as much as the meat."

I didn't know this – any of it – and my fingers tighten around Peeta's hand in response. I'd always assumed a baker's son would have the best and freshest bread and pastries, not the hard, stale things that no one wanted. Peeta's clearly never starved, but I can't help wondering if the burned bread he threw to me was fresher than anything he'd ever eaten from the bakery.

"So, Dad cut up a loaf of stale bread and made bread pudding," he says. "It's really simple: butter, eggs, milk, cinnamon, vanilla, a little nutmeg – and it's actually best with stale bread, because it absorbs the flavors better. He made it for Marko, but we each got a couple bites, and I swear it was the best thing I'd ever eaten. Pure comfort, by the spoonful.

"After that, it was the annual post-Reaping meal," he says. "It meant you were safe. Home. Warm and protected and loved. We had it every year," he tells me with a weak smile, "except…you know."

"This year," I whisper.

He nods, swallowing hard. "But…it was the first thing I had when I got home after the Games. Dad pulled me aside as soon as he could. We hid in a stairwell at the Justice Building and…I cried and ate bread pudding while Dad held onto me and told me over and over again that I was safe and home. Warm and protected and loved."

Peeta's eyes are red-rimmed now, and I'm overwhelmed by a desire to hold him, to cradle his face to my chest like a child's and stroke his hair as I assure him that _yes_, he's safe and home, warm and protected – but I can't. He won't want that, and it's not my place. Certainly not what he brought me here for.

So I bring my other hand to his as well and give a fierce, reassuring squeeze. He sniffles a few times, but no tears fall. "Thank you, Katniss," he whispers. "I'm sorry for –"

"Don't be," I tell him before he can say it.

He gives a breathy chuckle. "Okay," he says with a valiant attempt at a crooked smile. "Anyway…the first night Pollux and Lavinia and I spent here – just the three of us, after all the Capitol people were gone – I made a batch of bread pudding and told them the story. We sat in here – it was a lot different then – and ate our bread pudding around the table and…it was the first time I'd ever seen either of them look truly _happy_. It had been a very long time since either of them had known _safe_ or _home_," he says, looking at once angry and very sad.

"But…" I frown. One part of this doesn't add up. "Why would you make it for me, then?"

The anger melts from his eyes, leaving only sadness behind. "Isn't it obvious?" he asks.

I shake my head, my frown deepening.

Peeta hesitates a moment, looking down at our hands on the tabletop. "You did a really brave thing, coming out here," he says, slowly raising his eyes to mine. "Leaving your family to live with a boy you barely know –"

"I did it for my family," I interrupt, somehow irked by this.

Peeta shakes his head and laughs gently. "I know, Katniss," he assures me. "You might be the most selfless person I've ever met – and the bravest. But I thought…not knowing much of the situation you'd agreed to, you might be af – uneasy."

I hide my surprise behind a scowl. Does he know? My terror and tears the first night I was here; my tremors and nausea last night? Did Lavinia tell him how she found me beside the shower, or of my reluctance to eat the food he sent?

_Does he want me?_

I suck in a breath and look anywhere but at Peeta. I'd pull my hands away but they seem to have fused with his; my arms are leaden on the table. This is the first time the thought has come to me when I'm with him. I could ask, here and now, and know for certain – but I _can't_. Absolutely can't. My heart is racing and I'm afraid to breathe, let alone speak.

And then I feel his right hand turn beneath my left and close around it, enveloping my very bones in the cradle of his strong fingers and impossibly warm skin. His thumb, slightly callused, strokes the back of my hand, brushing the sensitive patch of skin between my thumb and forefinger, over and over again. "Katniss," he says, very softly.

I gulp and meet his eyes.

I've never seen such kindness in all my life. "You're _safe_," he murmurs, punctuating the word with a gentle squeeze of my hand. "_Home_, if you want to be. Warm and protected and –" He breaks off with a ragged, shuddering sound and brings my hand to his face. His fingers tighten around mine as his lips press the back of my hand.

I gasp. It's at once less and a hundred times _more_ intimate than him kissing the arches of my feet. That had been brief, almost playful. This is lingering and wholly serious. He doesn't release my hand or lift his head, and the wet warmth of his mouth triggers a strange heat in my belly.

"I'd never hurt you, Katniss," he whispers against my knuckles. "Or let anyone else do so. _Ever._" He kisses the word into my skin. I shiver, but not with fear, and think of those lips at the nape of my neck.

Almost abruptly, he lowers my hand to the table once more and releases it, his cheeks turning bright and bashful. "I'm sorry," he says. "I just…I don't want you to be afraid here, of m – of anyone or anything. I'll make you bread pudding every single day if that's what it takes," he adds with a small smile, and I feel an echoing smile tug at the corners of my mouth.

"That would be wonderful – but unnecessary," I tell him. "I'm okay, really."

And I _am_. I still don't understand my purpose or duties here, but Peeta's actions have affirmed what Lavinia told me last night. _No harm. Will __never__ hurt you._ It's baked into his breads and cakes and that near-magical pudding, resonant in the touch of his hands and lips – to say nothing of the soft clothes and furnishings he's provided for me. The most vulnerable animals in these woods trust Peeta Mellark – rely on him, even. I'd be a fool not to do likewise.

I offer to help with the lunch dishes but Peeta demurs yet again. "I'm perfectly happy to do this," he reminds me as he places the remaining cookies in a ceramic jar gaily patterned with pinecones, red berries, and tiny bird-prints. "You're free to do whatever you like."

"But – Lavinia's gone," I protest. "I mean…there must be things that need doing?"

Peeta contemplates this for a moment, then grins. "Yes," he says firmly. "Katniss Everdeen needs to enjoy herself, so thoroughly that she forgets how to scowl." He takes a cookie back out of the jar and presses it into my hand. "She needs to eat an entire batch of peanut butter cookies and play in the snow. She needs to skate and laugh and throw all the snowballs she likes. Preferably at Pollux," he adds with a wink. "And then come in, whenever she's good and ready, for a nice hot supper."

I shake my head at him, wondering if he has any idea how ridiculous he sounds. _And sweet,_ murmurs the little voice in my head. _He wants you to be full and happy and have fun._ "I suppose I could go outside a _little_ longer," I admit, biting back a bubble of enthusiasm.

Peeta's smile could outshine the sun.

He parcels up three more cookies in a cloth napkin, telling me I can share with Pollux "or not," then he cheerfully begins collecting the dishes, all but shooing me out of the kitchen. I return to the plush warmth of my coat and boots, not ungrateful for the continuing leisure but deeply confused by Peeta's good-natured reluctance to give me chores. There must be something I can do for him while I'm outside – gather branches or pinecones for the fires; _something._

The thought lasts all of five minutes. Once I'm in my skates and on the lake once more, I'm flying. My legs are a little sore from all the skating yesterday and the falls I took, on top of which I had that long snowshoe trek this morning, but my movements are even swifter and more graceful today. I feel like a sleek little bird; gliding through the frosty air, skimming over the frozen water, secure in my bright red plumage and deep white down.

I skate further out this time, taking in as much of the surrounding woods as I can. The lake is much bigger than I ever dreamed, curving north, far beyond Peeta's house. I wonder where it ends, and if four people in skates could escape from Panem, once and for all, over its icy surface.

It's a foolish thought, especially considering that Lavinia's already tried to escape into the wilderness beyond Twelve – and suffered horribly because of it – and I quickly redirect my thoughts to less seditious things. Peeta should have a boat, come spring, for fishing and trips back to town. I've never been in one, but I've seen primitive rafts in the Games, and Dad used to talk about pirogues, lightweight boats made from dug-out tree trunks. Grandpa and Grandma Everdeen built one on their Sundays in the woods and even took Dad out in it sometimes, but he was too small to tether it fast by himself, and it was battered to fragments in a particularly violent storm the summer his father died. Dad cried over the pieces – he was just eight at the time, and he'd lost something precious to his parents and a source of food, all at once – but his mother assured him that the broken boat would serve them just as well as firewood in the winter. She ended up in the mines herself after that and never had the time or energy to teach him the craft, so he became adept at fishing from shore and in turn taught those skills to me.

The thought makes me long for fresh fish, roasted to a crisp over an open fire, but I quickly remind myself that whatever Peeta makes for supper will be ten times better. I wonder if he fishes, this Merchant boy who feeds sparrows from his table and thought a chipmunk was a mutt-snake. Maybe in spring I can teach him, or catch and roast fish for him on a little spit in the backyard.

I chuckle at the thought. This boy who smells of bread, whose pale skin is heady with the scents of honey and cream and cloves, will hardly be interested in baiting hooks and gutting fish. He has a freezer full of expensive butcher meat: chicken and sausage and that glorious ham; just the memory of it makes my mouth water. He'll have no time or taste for small, smoky perch.

I loop back to shore at last, grinning all the while, and manage not to fall over this time after removing my skates. My snowman stands sentinel in the front yard, Peeta's scarf still wrapped around his "neck," and I decide he needs a friend. I start out making a child-snowman – a funny little boy, I tell myself, with yellow curls and round rosy cheeks – but it ends up far too tall, a little past shoulder-height on my first snowman.

I haven't made him a friend; I've made him a wife. Something about that makes me strangely sad, and I don't stay to give her a pebble face and arms. I know what she looks like: soft blonde hair, supple curves, and creamy skin. Perfectly matched to the smiling snowman in a jaunty red scarf beside her, and his cozy house of wood and stone.

Irritable now, I wander back to the stable, thinking to give Pollux the cookies I'd forgotten about, and find him seated on a stool beside the stable stove, looking dejected and a little miserable. I'm not the most sympathetic person in the world, but I know he has much more to feel bad about than me. "You okay?" I ask, proffering the napkin.

He gives a noncommittal nod and takes a cookie. I try not to watch too closely as he eats, but I can't help but be curious. Pollux can't taste the cookie, can't tell texture or temperature; all he can do is chew and circulate the bite with side-to-side movements of his jaw and, I imagine, saliva. He swallows slowly and cautiously, and yet there's a certain ease about it. I suppose it's second nature after living without a tongue for more than five years. And it strikes me as bitterly ironic that a man and woman who've lost their ability to taste – to enjoy the pleasures of food at all – should be living with the most skillful, generous cook I've ever known.

Once he's finished the cookie, he takes out the slate. _Gone a long time,_ he writes.

The sun _is_ drifting lower, and Lavinia isn't back yet. Is he worried? Should Peeta be? "Is that bad?" I ask.

He shrugs. _Unusual_, he writes. _But busy day._ And he gives me a small, mischievous smile.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" I ask without thinking.

He laughs and snatches the second cookie from my hand. _You'd better be happy tonight,_ he writes, grinning up at me. _Or he'll be really disappointed._

"Happy about what?" I ask suspiciously. I only know about Lavinia going to do some things at Mom and Prim's new house, and I'm already "happy" about that. Well, as happy as I _can_ be, in light of my immense debt to Peeta over it.

Grinning impishly now, Pollux wipes his slate clean and tucks it away, then spreads his hands in a gesture of wide-eyed innocence: a clear signal that I'll get no more from him. I give a huff of frustration and stalk out of the stable. I don't like surprises in general, and where Peeta's concerned, they tend to be overwhelming and make me cry – in front of other people, no less.

I'm halfway to the house when I feel a hand on my shoulder and whirl around, fists clenched at my sides. I'm in no mood for playing, but Pollux isn't smiling anymore. _I'm sorry,_ he mouths.

Pollux has never "talked" before, not when he can write. My scowl softens.

He points up to the house, then brings that hand to rest over his heart and points at me with his other hand. It's like Lavinia's sign language, but this message is less difficult to translate. The house means _Peeta_, and the hand-heart gesture is the same one he made for Peeta and the birds. _Care and compassion._ For _me_.

_Peeta cares for you, _or more likely, _Peeta takes care of you. _I nod in reply. This much I know, though I don't understand it.

He gestures at the house again, then at me, then points at his own face, creased in a demonstrative smile. _Peeta, me, happy…?_ I shake my head and he repeats the gestures deliberately. This time he points at me again after indicating the smile.

"Peeta…makes me happy?" I guess, and feel my cheeks warm. That isn't what I meant at all – I'm just trying to figure out what _he_ means – and Pollux raises a playful brow before shaking his head, chuckling softly. He gestures at the house once more, then throws up his hands and reaches for the slate. _Wants to__,_ he writes. _SO MUCH__._

"Wants to…make me happy?" I ask, and he nods emphatically in reply. "Okay," I venture. "So…whatever Lavinia's doing in town today…Peeta hopes it'll make me happy?"

Pollux gives another nod, this one slightly victorious. "Okay," I say again. I can't begin to guess what all Peeta has planned for Mom and Prim, but I can't imagine it would upset me. "If it's good for my family, I can promise I'll be happy about it," I assure him.

_Thank you,_ he writes, and gives me a last gentle smile before returning to the stable.

I continue to the back of the house but don't quite feel like going inside yet – Pollux's hints have my mind running furiously – so I make for the garden trellis instead and brush away enough snow to perch on the edge of the stone bench. I unfold Peeta's napkin and nibble thoughtfully at the last crumbled cookie.

Peeta knows that I know about the house for my family; it was a large condition of our bargain. Is there something special about it that everyone knows but me? And if so, what can it possibly _be_? Twelve is a plain, poor, grimy little district. Even the nicest Merchant home will be a bare fraction of the size and luxury of Peeta's house in the woods. The Victor's Village houses are larger, of course, but even Peeta can't have _two_ Victor's Residences – and I doubt he'd put Mom and Prim there anyway, with only filthy, staggering Haymitch as a neighbor.

There's a soft flutter of wings, very close by, and I look up to see a lone mourning dove, no more than five feet from where I'm sitting, pecking in the snow for forgotten bits of Peeta's food. I go stock still, even holding my breath.

Animals don't come near me, except for docile Rye – and Buttercup and Lady, of course. Wild creatures know better; they smell _hunter_ on me. This mourning dove isn't plump, as it will be come summer, but it would still make a meal for me – and Prim too, if I had a little flour or potatoes to go with it.

But Prim _has_ food now, good Merchant food and plenty of it…and so do I. I'll have supper within a half-hour, and I've got a cookie in my hand to boot. I don't _need_ to kill this bird.

I remember, all of a sudden, an old folk song Dad used to sing, and I hear myself humming it as I watch the dusky dove peck its way over the snow, ever closer to my booted feet:

_The snowflakes fall as winter calls and time just seems to fly  
__Is it the loneliness in me that makes me want to cry?  
__My heart is sad like a mourning dove that's lost its mate in flight  
__Hear the cooing of his lonely heart through the stillness of the night._

Dad loved mourning doves: their soft fawn-colored plumage, their haunting coo, the unique chittering-whistle sound of their wings as they landed or took flight. He made a pet of one the summer he was ten, and it stayed with him and his mother till his first Reaping. He let it go then, thinking it would be better off in the wild if he got Reaped, but it stayed close to the little shack in the woods and shared Dad's company and lunch for the next five years.

The bird at my feet could well be a descendant of Dad's beloved pet dove, who shared his tessera bread and rode along on his foraging rambles, perched on his shoulder. I'll have more food in minutes, but this bird won't eat till tomorrow. It might not even eat then. Maybe it came late, or the blackbirds drove it away, and by the time it returned to the garden, all of Peeta's scraps were gone. Maybe that's why it's so lean.

Maybe it's like_ me._ Scavenging its way through this brutal winter, and likely to die without the intervention of another creature.

I crumble what remains of Peeta's last cookie and, with a trembling hand, scatter food onto the snow for a wild bird.

The mourning dove flutters back a little in surprise, making the whistling sound that I can never believe comes from its wings, but it slowly returns, its tiny head cocked, to investigate the cookie crumbs. It pecks at one, almost curiously, then another, then – convinced, it would seem – begins eagerly feasting on the rich golden crumbs at my feet.

Katniss Everdeen just fed a wild bird. I bite my lip, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. If Dad was here, though, I think he'd be pleased.

"Katniss?"

Peeta's voice is close and gentle, but still I start, and the dove does too, fluttering back across the garden. I look up to see him standing almost beside the bench – how had I not heard him approach? – with an expression on his face that I can't begin to comprehend. It's happy and sad and _warm_, all at once.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, shamed. "I didn't mean to throw away your food –"

"No," he says firmly, and comes around to crouch in front of me, taking my gloved hands in his bare ones. He's coatless yet again, and I wonder how he can bear it. Maybe he _is_ as impossibly warm as he seems to me, and he doesn't feel the cold. I can feel the radiant heat of his strong hands, even through the leather of my gloves.

"You really _are_ the most selfless person I've ever met," he says, almost in wonder.

"I'm _not_, you know," I answer miserably. "The dove made me think of Dad – he used to have one – and I thought maybe it was hungry, so –"

"_Exactly_," he says, giving my hands a squeeze. "You're not going to eat that bird, and yet you gave it some of your own food. You helped something that can never help you back."

"But _you_ do that all the time!" I protest.

Peeta chuckles sadly. "I have a lot more to give," he reminds me gently. "Except for a very short period of time, I've never had to worry about where my next meal comes from. Whereas you, except for an even shorter period of time, have never _known_ where your next meal would come from, if it came at all. And you gave your last bit of food to the bird anyway."

"I gave the other two to Pollux," I point out dryly, and Peeta laughs, happily this time. "Well, that was your first mistake," he teases, and straightens to his feet. "There are more cookies in the house, and a whole supper on the table besides, but I'm a little worried the menu may be…badly timed."

I raise my brows in question. I've eaten almost everything edible to be found in the district or the woods at one time or another. Peeta's civilized palate will hardly disturb me.

"Chicken?" he says hopefully.

I laugh away his uncertainty. Chicken is a luxury. I can still recall every last bite of the cold chicken Peeta's father brought in the hamper two days ago, from that first stolen morsel of breast meat to my last greedy nibbles on the peppery skin. And chickens are stupid. I think of the four fat brown hens in the Cartwrights' back garden, clucking and fussing and pecking at my knees every time I returned Delly's mother's tea tin, refilled with Mom's finest "women's tonic" herbs.

"Chicken sounds perfect," I assure him.

And it is. Peeta oven-roasted the chicken I saw in the icebox yesterday, and it awaits us proudly on the dining room table. The skin is golden-crisp and piping hot and perfectly seasoned with pepper and thyme, and the meat is moist and juicy and steams in my mouth. It's even better than the cold chicken from two days ago, and when I tell Peeta so he blushes beet-red, looking embarrassed but deeply pleased.

"I'll tell my aunt you said that," he replies, grinning. "She made that chicken for you, and she's the one who taught me how to cook meat. She'll be sorry she ever let you have that goat," he adds with a laugh.

"Goat?" I echo, confused. Can he mean Lady? And if so: "You mean…Rooba's your aunt?"

Peeta nods. "I thought you knew," he says.

I supposed I should have connected it sooner. Peeta told me that his mother was a butcher's daughter, and Rooba is of an age with her, maybe a few years older. The short, chunky woman with her no-nonsense trades and flickers of merriment is as unlike Peeta's slim, bitter mother as possible; it's difficult to envision the two as sisters. But the memory of a black-and-white goat with a mauled shoulder and a stray wink from the woman who could have turned a fine profit on its meat reminds me that it's not such a stretch for Rooba to be Peeta's aunt.

"I didn't know," I admit. "But you should probably thank her for me, a few times."

"Is that your subtle way of saying you like my cooking?" he teases.

"I _love_ your cooking," I counter, and feel my own cheeks flood with color. "Is that subtle enough for you?"

There is, of course, much more than chicken on the table tonight. Peeta's prepared a bowl of delicately boiled vegetables – potatoes, turnips, and onions – tossed with butter, parsley, garlic, and something that makes me give a surprised little "Oh!" on my first bite.

Peeta laughs at my reaction, though his blush returns with a fiery vengeance. "I added a little white wine to the sauce," he says. "The alcohol cooks off, of course, but it does something…well, _amazing_ to the flavor."

Our bread for the evening, which Peeta brings in after I'm half-stuffed with chicken and vegetables, is a small, dark, dense loaf that smells suspiciously like ginger cake. Peeta grins as he places it at my right hand, along with a little dish of creamy goat cheese and a small, steaming crock of applesauce.

"You made me ginger _bread_?" I ask, more than a little surprised. He mentioned it so offhandedly last night, and yet he prepared and served it exactly as he'd said.

"With goat cheese and applesauce," he confirms. "I haven't tried them all together yet, so I really hope it's good."

It is – of course it is. The richly spiced "bread" tastes almost identical to Peeta's cake, and yet the cheese and applesauce give it an entirely different character. I try the ingredients in various arrangements and decide I prefer a thin layer of goat cheese spread on a slice of gingerbread, with a warm dollop of applesauce on top.

"The applesauce is from the garden," Peeta explains. "There's an apple tree there, a very old one. It was what first made this place feel like home."

I remember the Mellarks' apple tree all too well. I nearly died beneath its branches, soaked to the skin and frail with hunger. There were days when I would have cut off my left hand for just one of its plump pink apples, and I realize of a sudden that, since I've come here, Peeta's been feeding me apples – cider, fresh slices, and now applesauce – almost ceaselessly. He even included apples in the hamper he sent for my family.

"It produces the best apples I've ever had," Peeta goes on. "Round and green with a blush of red and just the right amount of tartness. I wanted to save as many of them for you as I could, but I'm still new to canning, so I ended up with mostly applesauce."

I stare back at him, startled and a little breathless at his words. His gift of the beautiful winter coat sets his plan for our bargain before the Victory Tour, over a month ago now…but apples ripen in September. Has Peeta been planning for me to come here for nearly three months?

"You wanted to save apples _for me_?" I ask.

Peeta goes a little pale. "Well, I –" he begins, only to shake his head and say instead, firmly, "Yes. They were too delicious not to share, and apples have always reminded me of you. If you hadn't come to live with me, I would have sent you jars of applesauce for New Year."

"Why do apples remind you of me?" I puzzle.

"Why do you think?" he answers softly.

I wonder if it's possible. If this boy, whose lifesaving generosity beams back at me from the face of every last sunny dandelion, sees my hollow, starving form in every apple. "I'm so sorry, Peeta," I whisper.

"For what?" he asks, reaching forward to brush his fingers over my hand. "It's not a _bad_ association, Katniss. Apple trees are amazing. Full of blossoms in the spring, and heavy with fruit in the fall, and –" He breaks off, blushing hotly, though I can't imagine why. "They're…well, they're wild and beautiful and remind me of you," he says in a rush. "It started because of that day in April, sure, but…the more I thought about it, the better it seemed to fit."

His eyes unfocus a little, as though for a moment, he's far away. "There were flower buds on the tree that day, you know," he murmurs. "The branches were full of them, in spite of the terrible lingering winter. It just needed the warmth of the sun to burst into bloom." He clears his throat and adds hoarsely, "That made me think of you too."

_Buds and blossoms and fruit…_I can't think how I'm in _any_ way like an apple tree, but Peeta's words make my skin tingle and my breath come a little faster. I look down at his fingers, still brushing mine on the tabletop, and grasp at the first topic to come to mind. "Peeta, did you know you have sugar maples?" I ask, a little breathily. "Maybe…a fifteen-minute walk from the house? It's early still, but –"

He looks at me, his eyes clear and focused once more, and smiles, shaking his head. "You're impossible to surprise, you know," he tells me, and gets up to go into the kitchen, only to return a few moments later. In the palm of his right hand is a small metal object with a red ribbon tied around it. "I meant to give you this next month, when you were bored with cabin fever," he says, offering it to me.

I take the object from his hand with a little gasp of wonder. It's a spile, identical to the ones Dad used the few times we went sugaring. I've been looking for Dad's lost spiles for years; Peeta can't have found them. "But…how did you –?"

"Believe it or not, your dad traded it to my granddad, a long time ago," he says, taking his seat once more. "I think he had it in mind to take my dad out sugaring sometime. That never happened, of course, and Dad gave the spile to me when I moved out here."

"But…" I frown. Dad's spiles – all his hunting and foraging tools – were very precious to him. He wouldn't have sold a spile unless he was desperate – or stood to gain something equal to the profit of his sap harvest. Had he thought of making Peeta's dad a hunting partner?

_Could Peeta have been Gale?_ I shake my head at the absurdity of the thought – our fathers hunting together, then us in turn – but I can't shake the idea of Dad making an overture of friendship, _partnership_ even, to the baker's son. "Why didn't it happen?" I wonder aloud.

Peeta looks awkward all of a sudden. "Well…I don't really know the whole story, but…I expect it had something to do with a girl," he says carefully.

"Oh," I say, and then, blushing furiously, whisper it again. "_Oh._" If Dad was trading with Peeta's grandfather, Peeta's dad was probably still a teenager…and Mom wasn't with Dad.

Dad had _always_ loved her, he told us, even when he was a muddy little forager in overalls, all of eight years old, and Mom was a pigtailed toddler in a pink pinafore, hiding behind her mother's skirts. And for the first time ever, it occurs to me that Dad might not have been Mom's first choice. That he might have brought her herbs and roots for years, yearning for her attention, while she held hands and stole kisses with a blond baker's boy.

No wonder he didn't follow through on his offer to take Peeta's dad to the woods.

I get up, the spile clenched in my palm. "I…um…I should –"

Peeta stands quickly, reaching to touch my arm in a placating gesture. "Please don't go," he pleads. "I'm sorry I upset you. I forget sometimes that…you didn't know."

I sigh – Peeta's too good at this – and let him coax me back into my chair. "So…you've always known?" I ask dully. "About…your dad and…my mom?"

Peeta gives me a crooked grin. "Very nearly," he says. "Dad pointed you out on our very first day of school and told me that he'd wanted to marry your mother, but she ran off with a coal miner instead."

My mouth drops open. "You're making that up," I say.

He shakes his head, chuckling. "I was all of five at the time, but it was a very…_memorable_ day," he says. "And honestly, I think Dad was dying to tell someone. Mom was…not very nice after I was born, and…I think it made him wish for…what could have been."

I push aside my emotions for a moment and consider this rationally. Even if Peeta's dad and my mom had never been _together_ – my mind shrinks from the thought – it's not unlikely that he would have longed for a sweeter, gentler wife than the one he had. And Mom is the complete opposite of Peeta's brusque, angry mother. She most certainly would _never_ have hit her children. As unsettling as it is to contemplate: she _would_ have made a good wife for the baker. I can almost picture it: a happy, laughing Mom in a pretty print dress with a smudge of flour on her cheek, singing in the bakery kitchen as she kneads dough and whisks bowls of rich cake batter.

"And as I got older, I think it helped that I understood," Peeta adds, very quietly. "Loving someone…who doesn't love you back."

The girl. Peeta's girl, whoever she is, with her blonde curls and becoming curves. This is the first he's ever mentioned her to me. I resolve to pummel my snow-girl to powder first thing in the morning. "You…_asked_ her, then?" I croak, fisting my hands in my lap.

"Not yet," he whispers.

I look up to find his cheeks flushed yet again. "I – it's too soon, you know?" he stammers. "She doesn't – she won't – it's too soon," he says again, resolutely this time.

"I don't know about that," I say, hating myself as the feeble assurances leave my lips. "Maybe if you brought her here, gave her a beautiful room and clothes and cooked meals for her, she might see how much you love her."

Peeta gives a choked sort of laugh. "That's the plan," he says quietly.

I frown, suddenly irritated. "Well, then, what are you wasting all this on _me_ for?" I demand, with a sweeping gesture at the food, the fireplace, the snug dining room with its toffee-colored walls.

Peeta stares at me for a long serious moment. I don't understand why, but my heart speeds a little at the intensity in his bright eyes. "I'm not wasting anything, Katniss," he says at last. "At this moment, you are the only person in the world I want to share these things with."

I shake my head, exasperated. He's being ridiculous again. We're not even _friends_; why would Peeta want to share his home and food with me? "And why is that?" I ask, a little mockingly.

To my surprise, Peeta grins. "Because you are painfully direct," he replies. "You talk more than you realize and react to every new good thing with this impossible degree of wonder. And you look absolutely stunning by firelight," he adds, his smile softening, as he gets to his feet.

For the second time tonight, my jaw drops in shock. I think Peeta just insulted me, but he said all those things in such a happy manner, as though…as though he _likes_ that about me. _And did he just say I look pretty?_

He extends a hand, practically beaming now. "Come on," he says playfully. "We're going to make dessert."

It's the first time, aside from asking me to grab two spice bottles for him yesterday, that Peeta's asked me for anything. I seize his hand and scramble out of the chair. "Yes!" I tell him emphatically, almost dragging him into the kitchen. "What do you want me to do?"

He takes a small mixing bowl from the kitchen table and presses it into my hands. "I want you to bring me some snow," he says, his blue eyes dancing.

"Snow?" I echo. He knows about spiles and sugaring; can he be planning to make sugar snow? But he can't; it's far too early still.

"Snow," he repeats firmly. "I'll get everything else."

I don't bother with a coat as I trip down the back steps and scoop a heaping bowlful from the first drift I come to. The backyard is breathtaking tonight, with moonlight bathing the garden in blue light and making the drifts shimmer with diamonds. The trellis looks like an archway of spun silver, a secret fairy place – or a lover's rendezvous.

I bring the snow to Peeta with a dubious frown – he's just putting the coffeepot on the stove – and he laughs. "I haven't had this either," he admits, "but Grandad used to make it when Dad and Uncle Marek were little, and Dad still swears it was better than anything they sell at the creamery."

He eyes the bowl of snow for a moment, then carries it into the pantry. I watch curiously as he adds a heaping scoop of sugar from one of the barrels, then he brings the bowl back to the kitchen table where a small, stout bottle of cream, a spice jar, and a dark, tiny extract bottle – _please let it be the vanilla!_ – await. He adds a careful splash of the extract – it _is_ vanilla, and my knees go a little wobbly at the scent – several pinches from the spice jar – nutmeg, I think – and the entire bottle of cream, then stirs the mixture thoroughly with a long-handled spoon. I can't begin to guess at what he's making, but it's a bit like a frozen batter, white and thick, flecked here and there with nutmeg.

He stops stirring at last and raises a heaping spoonful to my mouth, grinning like a little boy who's just been given something he's always wanted. "What do you think?" he asks eagerly.

I guide the spoon to my lips and take a small bite of its contents, gasping as it melts on my tongue. It's as cold as snow but creamy and sweet and _good_. The headiness of the vanilla, the rustic spice of nutmeg, the rich mouthfeel of real cream…it's so good that I almost can't breathe.

I clean the spoon with another greedy bite and hear Peeta laugh. "She likes it, then?" he teases.

"She does," I reply through a melting mouthful of sweet cream and spice. "What _is_ this?"

"Snow ice cream," he tells me giddily. "And you and I are going to sit on the porch together and have enormous bowls of it."

"Outside?" I say. "In this cold?"

"I've made arrangements for that," he says with a grin.

While I separate the snow ice cream into two heaping bowls, stealing furtive licks from the spoon whenever Peeta's back is turned, he takes out two mugs – the enormous one we shared hot chocolate from on my first night here and my small, battered mug from home – and puts a little brown sugar and nutmeg in both, then fills them just over halfway with hot coffee and tops them with cream.

"I know you don't like coffee," he says, extending the little mug to me, "but I don't think you've tried it this way."

I take a cautious sip of the beverage and give a little whimper of pleasure. This is too much – _far_ too much. The coffee flavor is still very present, but the brown sugar buffers it, taking away the bitter edge, and the cream lends a sweet, buttery smoothness, peppered faintly with the nutmeg.

"I kind of love nutmeg," Peeta confesses. "I hope you don't mind."

I grasp the front of his sweater with my free hand. "Promise you'll make this again," I groan. I've barely had one sip, but I can't bear to drink the rest if I know I'll never have it again.

Peeta laughs shakily and covers my hand with his, and I start a little at the touch. When I grabbed his sweater, somehow I hadn't considered that I was touching his chest, and the weight of his hand on mine presses my curled fingers against his heart. "Every morning, if you want it," he promises.

Peeta gets out a tray for our coffee and dessert, then retrieves two heavy wool blankets from the warming rack in the living room. I carry the tray out onto the frosty porch, feeling a little silly, and he spreads a blanket in one of the curved-back chairs for me. "Sit down," he urges. "I'll wrap you up."

Feeling even more foolish, I set the tray on the little table, which has been moved from between the chairs to in front of them, and sink into a cocoon of fire-warmed wool. I'm so small that Peeta could bury me with one quick fold of the blanket, but he bundles it about me with as much care as when he wrapped me up in the sleigh. He tucks my slippered feet beneath one hip and tugs a little of the blanket up to cover my head like a hood. "Nice and warm?" he asks at last, handing me my bowl and mug.

"Perfect," I assure him. The bowl is icy-cold, of course, but my legs are snug beneath layers of toasty wool.

Peeta drapes his own blanket over his shoulders like a cloak and sits beside me. Impossibly warm though he may be, someone should wrap him up too, I think. I balance my mug on my thigh for a moment and reach over to tug the blanket over his shoulder, closer to the exposed skin of his neck.

He catches his breath at the touch. "Thank you, Katniss," he whispers.

We sit for a long time, sipping and sighing and eating spoonful after creamy spoonful in our nests of warm wool. When my own dish of snow ice cream is gone – far too soon; I even drank the tiny puddle at the bottom – I lean over to sneak a spoonful from Peeta. He allows it, chuckling softly, then scoots his chair a little closer and sets his bowl inside mine. I raise my brows as he takes a spoonful from our stacked bowls, then I take one for myself.

It's a startlingly intimate act, eating from his bowl, and we're so close together that I could press my cheek to his if I were sitting up straight. As it is, curled up in the chair as I am, we're close to our standing proportions. I'm little, but Peeta's only about medium height. I could rest my temple against his jaw if I wanted…or lay my head on his shoulder.

"You're tired," he murmurs, and I realize I've unconsciously started to lean toward him a little.

"Not really," I lie, moving quickly back into my chair. I _am_ getting sleepy, between the blanket, the hot drink, and all the pure fresh air I've breathed in today, but I blame my sinking head on the warmth of his body. After all, even plants turn toward the sun.

"I, um…" he begins. I look at him, puzzled, and he takes the mug and bowls from me and sets them on the table. "I don't mind," he says softly, settling back into his chair. "And I…well, I know it's cold. And you've had a busy day."

He's not far wrong. I can't remember when I've last had such an emotional day, let alone stayed awake through all of it. "Okay," I whisper. I scoot my own chair closer, pushing the arms of our chairs together, and permit myself –_for just _one_ moment,_ I promise silently – to rest my head on Peeta's shoulder.

Only he's _so _very warm and smells _so_ good that I can't bear to sit back in my own chair again. I close my eyes and nestle my cheek against his shoulder – finding a more comfortable spot, of course – and Peeta gives a deep sigh. Another layer of blanket drapes over my shoulder, and I realize he's covering me with his blanket too. Covering us both.

_I know this feeling,_ I muse sleepily, _of sharing a cover and body heat._ Could _this_ be what happens at night? Can it possibly be Peeta who lies beside me in that enormous bed, and his delicious warmth that eases my dreams? Are his the hands that tuck the blankets so snugly around me every morning?

I hear sleigh bells in the distance, jingling brightly in the sharp cold of the night air. "Lavinia's home," I murmur against Peeta's shoulder.

He sighs once more and I feel his fingertips brush my cheek. "And here I thought it was Father Christmas," he says, almost sadly.

I open my eyes reluctantly and watch them approach. The moonlight and diamond-snow lend a fairytale quality to the image of a woman in a pony-drawn sleigh, sailing across a frozen lake. I try to think if I've heard that tale before. _A mute maiden in a sleigh of ice, with the reddest hair anyone had ever seen…_

I hear another sound – footsteps crunching in snow – and turn my head a little to see Pollux crossing the front yard in a positive fury. Peeta chuckles, his shoulder shaking gently beneath my cheek. "This should be fun," he murmurs against my hair. "You're about the see the Avox equivalent of 'What time of day do you call this?'"

He's not kidding. Before Lavinia has even stopped the sleigh, Pollux is alongside it, gesticulating wildly. Once or twice he goes to Rye to love on him a little, stroking the pony's strong neck or petting his face, but always he goes back to Lavinia. Now and again they make frustrated guttural sounds at each other, and Lavinia repeatedly points up at the porch – at Peeta, I presume. Finally she throws up her hands, takes a parcel from the seat and comes up to the house, leaving Pollux to deal with the sleigh and its contents.

She's pink-cheeked from the cold and anything but cross. Grinning, she rummages in her leather bag as she climbs the steps and takes out a small white paper parcel – something from the bakery – and an envelope, both of which she hands to me.

"Really?" Peeta says, laughing brightly.

I peer inside the bakery parcel to find two large sugar cookies, just like the ones Peeta's father sent over the night I left, right down to the dusting of pink sugar.

"Dad and I are apparently trying to out-spoil the Everdeen girls," Peeta tells me. "I'll have to come up with something even better to send Prim next time."

At his mention of Prim, I turn my attention to the envelope. Maybe Lavinia couldn't deliver my letter for some reason and brought it back with her. But this isn't my letter. It has _my_ name on it. In my sister's handwriting.

"_Really?_" I squeal.

Lavinia nods, smiling widely. She mimes writing, then points up at the sky. "_That's_ why you're so late," Peeta realizes. "You waited for Prim to finish her letter."

She nods again and I leap from the chair, nearly crashing into the little table, to give her a hug. "Thank you so much!" I whisper. She smells like Twelve, like soot and coal fires and fresh bakery bread, and I hold her a little longer than necessary, my eyes growing misty as I breathe in the scents of home.

Just as suddenly I pull back from her and look at Peeta. "Is it okay –?" I begin, but he's already waving me inside.

"Go. _Read_," he insists, grinning as broadly as Lavinia did a moment ago, and hands me the little bakery parcel. "Don't forget your cookies."

I hurry inside, hands shaking a little as I tear open the envelope, and sit in the armchair by the living room fire. There are _pages_ here – three pages, covered with Prim's curly, enthusiastic scrawl. I set aside the envelope and cookies on the low table and begin to read.

_Dear Katniss,_

_Please don't hate Mom too much. She cried so hard after you left that I thought she would make herself sick. She sat on the bed and cried and cried, so I wrapped her up in one of the blankets that Mr. Mellark brought. They're soft and smell like bread, and I thought it would help, but it only made her cry harder._

_I fell asleep for a little, but she made another pot of Mr. Mellark's coffee and sat up all night. She kept saying "It wasn't supposed to happen like this," over and over again, when I tried to get her to go to bed. She looked like she did after Dad died. __Lost._

I set down the letter for a moment, frowning. I know now why Mom was so upset the night I left – what it was that she feared – but I had no idea it had disturbed her so deeply. There have been days, countless hollow days, where Mom didn't care whether I lived or died…and yet the idea of me selling myself – my _body_, if necessary – to keep my family alive had driven her half-mad with grief.

Have I misjudged her all these years? Maybe she always _has_ cared about me. _Or maybe,_ a petty little voice suggests, _you were her last connection to Dad, and _that's _the loss she's grieving._ I ignore both lines of thought and read on.

_This morning Mr. Mellark came over with another basket of food, and he got worried when he saw Mom asleep at the table. He made us breakfast, eggs and potatoes and BACON, plus fresh sticky buns from the bakery, but when he tried to wake Mom to eat she got really angry. She yelled at him and said it was all his fault and made him leave. He was sad, but I think he understood. And she ate some of the food after he left._

_She went back to bed after that and I looked through the food Mr. Mellark brought. There was more milk and bread and eggs, a little jar of salt, even a nice piece of cold beef, plus the vegetables Marko promised for our chicken soup, of course. I'm not as good a cook as you, but I peeled and cut up the vegetables and heated up the stock from last night. _

My heart sinks as I read. That was me after Dad died – a twelve-year old child, teaching myself to cook because Mom had simply ceased to function – and what I had always hoped to spare Prim. What had I done, leaving her on her own?

I turn the page over.

_But before I could do more than that, Marko arrived with a little yellow cake from the bakery. He said his dad was worried and wanted him to check on us. He peeked in the kettle and asked why there wasn't any chicken in the chicken soup, and I didn't say a word about the Hawthornes, just that we ran out. He gave a sad little laugh and said we'd make do. We had cold beef sandwiches with vegetable soup and lemon cake for dessert, and Mom even got up after a little because she smelled the food. She was confused to see Marko in the house and called him "Marek" once, but he made sure she got plenty to eat, and lots of hot tea too. "If you won't listen to Dad, listen to me," he told her. "Peeta cares more for Katniss than he does for himself. He would never __ever__ hurt her." I knew that already, of course, but he talked to Mom like she was a wounded animal. Very soft and soothing._

_After lunch Mom fussed with some socks that needed mending and didn't go back to bed, which was good, and Marko went away for a little, promising to come back with supper. And did he ever! He came back just after dark with TWO pies: an apple pie with sweet crumbly things on top, and a meat pie, full of chicken and potatoes and peas in gravy. I've never had anything so good in my life! Even the crusts were flaky and wonderful._

_He built up all the fires and made sure our beds had plenty of blankets, and before he left he reminded us that we'll be going to see the new house tomorrow. I can't wait! I'll write more then and tell you all about it._

I smile, reassured by Peeta's brother's kindness, and pick up the second page.

_Oh my gosh! I was just sitting in science class when the most beautiful girl I've ever seen brought me a little package with my name and flowers PAINTED on it and a letter from YOU! I'm going to hide your letter inside my textbook and try to read it in class. I'm so excited I can't stand it! (And the wrapped thing smells so good! Is it a cookie?)_

I chuckle softly. If this was Prim's response to Lavinia with shortbread and a letter, what will she say once she's read it?

I don't have to wait for an answer:

_OH MY GOSH! Katniss! Peeta barely told me ANYTHING about your new house! Do you REALLY have a cave shower and a rock fireplace and a coat lined with fur? And magical pumpkin soup? I can't believe it! It sounds like the fairy tales Dad used to tell us! Do you have closets full of pretty dresses too?_

I laugh at that. Pretty dresses are Prim's fairy tale, not mine, though I make a note to tell her about all the new clothes I _do_ have in my next letter. Except for the nightgowns, maybe…

_The butter cookie Peeta sent was AMAZING. I was only going to eat a quick nibble between classes and then share it with my friends at lunch, but it was __so good__ that I ate half of it myself before I even got to lunch! Is it like the shortbread he made for you? No wonder you ate almost the entire plate!_

_I have to go meet Mom at the bakery, but I'll write more as soon as we see the new house._

I bite my lip, worrying it a little with my teeth. After the conversation with Pollux, I'm more than a little nervous about what she found.

I carefully turn the page.

_Katniss, I'm so stunned I don't know what to say. Our new home is above the old apothecary shop, where Mom used to live. Peeta bought it for us, both the house and the shop. When Mr. Mellark told us where we were going, Mom looked strange for a minute. And then we went inside and I thought she was going to cry._

_When we got here, the red-haired girl (Lavinia) was tidying things up. Everything was clean and fresh and neat as a pin. The shop front is as good as new, and the workroom too. There are some of Grandpa and Grandma's old mortar-and-pestles and bottles and jars still there, plus droppers and corks and stoppers too. Mr. Mellark says Mom can reopen the shop whenever she wants, and I can work there too! There's even a new sign ready for the front. EVERDEEN'S APOTHECARY, it reads, and it's painted with all our flowers. Purple alyssum for Mom, yellow primroses for me, and white katniss for you._

_The upstairs is bigger than our whole house in the Seam, and everything was made up when we got here, ready for us to move in. It has two brick fireplaces, both of them full of logs, and an icebox (!) with meat and cheese and eggs and milk and fruit and vegetables. There's flour and sugar and salt in the cupboards – and dishes! Brand-new dishes and kettles and fresh bread from the bakery – and rugs! Big woven rugs EVERYWHERE!_

_There are THREE bedrooms, so we each have our own room – even YOU, when you come to visit! They're all about the same size, but Mom's room is all ferns and roses and lace, and mine is yellow, with a beautiful iron bedframe and a quilt covered with wildflowers. (There's even a basket for Buttercup!) And there are clothes in the closets and dressers! Sweaters and trousers and socks and new shoes – even dresses, for both of us, and all so pretty! Mr. Mellark said we're to go to the shops and buy whatever else we'd like, as much as we want. _

_Oh, and at the back of the house is a little screened porch. Mr. Mellark said it used to be a place for drying herbs, especially during the summer, but that during the winter it could double as a house for Lady. When it gets a little warmer, Marko says he'll build a brand-new hut for her in the backyard!_

_And best of all, we're right next door to the bakery. Our windows face each other, so I can wave at Marko and Mr. Mellark if I want, and we'll wake up __every single day__ to the smell of fresh bread! Mr. Mellark said he'll bring fresh bread and things every day but that I can also stop by the bakery anytime for a cookie or a sticky bun. He said Mrs. Mellark might not be very happy at first, but Peeta pays her in advance, so there's nothing she can do about it. And we're a Merchant family now, so she'll __have to__ treat us nicely!_

_Mr. Mellark and Marko are cooking supper now. Mom and I are staying here tonight (don't worry, Rory's stopping by to look in on Buttercup and Lady!), and tomorrow after school Marko's going to help us move all our things over from the old house. The whole place has electric light, so I can sit up as late as I like and READ!_

_I think Lavinia is getting anxious to go, and I still need to write a little note for Peeta. I'm sorry I didn't talk about your letter more, especially when things are so much more exciting where you are! I'll write about it next time, okay?_

_I love you so much! Thank you a hundred times for agreeing to live with Peeta. This is already the very best thing that has ever happened to our family, and I know things are going to get better and better. For you and us._

_I'll write again soon._

_Love,_

_Prim_

I'm not sure which I'm aware of first: the hot tears spilling down my face or the hand in front of me, offering a handkerchief. I look up, my breath coming in ragged, shallow pants, to find Peeta beside me, looking utterly miserable. There's a letter in his hand too, much shorter than mine. "_Please_ let me explain," he says quietly.

I take the handkerchief with numb fingers as he sits on the low table in front of me. "I'm not going to stop taking care of them, Katniss," he promises. "Or give them less of anything – far from it. They'll have everything I promised, and more besides. They won't have to spend a single penny of their own money if they don't wish to."

I stare back at him in disbelief. Does he think I have such a low opinion of him? Does he really not understand why I'm crying?

Peeta's given Mom her family's home and business – her old life – back. She'll thrive and grow healthy again, and the Seam residents won't suffer because she'll still find ways to trade with them. Prim will work beside her and become an apothecary too. She'll wake every morning to the smells of fresh bread and sticky buns and study long into the night beneath her precious electric lights.

"I did it for two reasons – well, more than two," Peeta explains, very gently. "But there were two that mattered most of all. First: your mother and Prim are both gifted healers. They can practice their craft in the shop and earn a steady income from it."

I give a little sob at these words, but he's not quite finished. "And second: this gives them a business, a livelihood that's all their own," he says, leaning forward to take my hands in his. "It will make their…new position more acceptable to the district, and it ensures that they – that _all_ of you – are taken care of, if…anything should happen to me."

His eyes are full of grief now, and his hands slip from mine. "I'm sorry, Katniss," he whispers. "I should have asked you first. I should have –"

"_Why?_" I whisper back.

He blinks rapidly, confused by the question. "Wh…I-I told you why – " he says.

"_Why_," I say again, my voice rising warningly, "do you insist on doing things I can never, _ever_ repay you for?"

His confusion vanishes, and the grief too. He's loving, tender Peeta again, the impossibly _good _boy who feeds wild birds and brings home Avoxes and buys businesses for poor families, and it only makes me angrier. "I don't expect you to pay me back, Katniss," he says softly. "_Ever._"

"But that's how it _works!_" I snap, furious at the tears that I can't seem to stop. "You give me something; I give you something at least as good in return!"

Peeta shakes his head. "You've given me your presence in this house," he says, smiling, and raises a hand to brush a stray lock of hair from my damp cheek. "That's worth more than a hundred apothecary shops."

It may be sheer madness, but there's only one thing I can think to do. It's not the first time I've been crushed by my debt to Peeta, with the feeblest of tokens to offer in return. Swift as a snare, I turn my head and press my lips against his palm.

Peeta sucks in his breath with a sharp hiss and his hand stills against my face, his fingers splayed along my cheek. He's either shocked or repulsed, but I'm too desperate in this moment to care. I owe him too much, and I have nothing else to give.

I press little kisses over every inch of his palm, scarcely aware of the gentle brush of his thumb against my nose. "_Why?_" I groan, lips parted against his skin. "I can't repay this. Can't even _begin_ to tell you how grateful –"

Further words die in my throat as his free hand covers my other cheek, cradling my face in the warmth of his palms. His caught breath leaves him in a sigh, a cool puff of nutmeg and coffee and sweet cream against my brow. "I don't want you to be grateful, Katniss," he whispers. "I want you to be _happy_."

_Happiness is elusive,_ I want to tell him. _A silly, fragile thing, impossible to promise or protect._ And yet, sitting in this fireside armchair with Peeta's hands on my face, learning that my family will be comfortable and wealthy for the rest of their lives simply because I agreed to share this dream of a house with the kindest boy I've ever known…for the first time since Dad died, I wonder if happiness might actually be possible.

I close my eyes for a long moment and feel Peeta's broad thumbs brush over them, wiping the last traces of tears from my lashes. The gesture is at once comforting and oddly loverlike. "So…you're okay with their new house, then?" he asks lightly.

I open my eyes a little to see the smallest of smiles playing about his lips. "Pollux made me promise to be," I answer, my own mouth tugging up a little in response.

I don't offer more words of thanks, and Peeta doesn't ask or expect them. I shiver a little at the loss of his hands against my face and return his – now damp and crumpled – handkerchief. As on the previous two nights, he urges me to sleep as late as I like and wishes me a quiet _good night_, one fingertip stroking my cheek.

I ascend the stairs, far less drowsy now, to find Lavinia in my room, her work clothes exchanged for a rose-patterned robe and soft slippers, unpacking the parcel she brought in earlier. I've never seen her dressed so informally, but it doesn't surprise me. When last I saw the old apothecary shop, it was an abandoned, soot-streaked building with boarded-up windows. She would have worn herself ragged just making it _presentable_, let alone as clean and pretty as Prim said.

The parcel, a bundle of brown paper and green ribbon, lies open on my bed, its contents a patchwork of many small items in cloud-like shades. "_Now_ what have you brought me?" I tease, coming closer, and she holds up one of the items for my appraisal.

I gape at her, my cheeks on fire. She's holding a bra, a pretty thing made of dark blue eyelet cotton with slim straps and neat, tiny cups, maybe even small enough for my pigeon-egg breasts.

I've never worn a bra before. I've never needed to. Last summer was the first time my breasts were big enough to even _attempt_ one, and it had proven a disaster. I borrowed one of Mom's – a cheap Seam one, with dingy shapeless cups and frail elastic – but she had always been curvier than me, even at her leanest. I'd had to secure the band with a pin and stuff the cups with socks just to keep it from sliding around, and it looked ridiculous. I couldn't leave the house like that, to say nothing of meeting Gale in the woods, so I improvised by wrapping a length of bandage around my chest instead. Not tightly, just enough to prevent any jiggling. It made my breasts look even smaller, which didn't bother me in the least.

And of course, this winter I've lost weight everywhere. I doubt there's an inch of fat on my entire body.

"Why on earth would you buy me this?" I hiss, snatching the garment out of Lavinia's hands and crushing it into a tiny ball. She quirks a brow at me and lifts a second bra from the pile, this one made of lavender cotton printed with little white flowers.

I give the pile a good look for the first time. It's all _underthings_. A dozen or more pairs of underwear, plus a few camisoles and the bras Lavinia's already shown me, all in dusky shades of gray and blue and purple, with the same sorts of pretty details as the nightgowns Peeta bought me.

I'm so mortified I can barely draw a breath. "Does Peeta know you bought me this stuff?" I squeak.

She chuckles and takes a scrap of paper from the pocket of her robe, then hands it to me. It's a list in unfamiliar masculine handwriting; Peeta's, I imagine. I remember him and Lavinia looking at a scrap page like this before she left this morning. _Curtains for Everdeens, _it begins. _Rugs. Extra milk and eggs. Underthings for Katniss._

The blush on my cheeks blazes its way down my neck and throat. "He _told you_ to get these for me?"

Of course he did. I remember now: the guilty look when I came back to the kitchen, and Peeta's remark about _those sorts of colors._

She's got her slate out now. _Less awkward if it's me,_ she writes, and shrugs.

She's right, of course. Peeta buying underthings for a girl would have sparked all manner of district gossip, however absurd the idea behind it – whereas Lavinia could buy them without anyone batting an eye.

"Did he tell you…?" I uncrumple the bra in my hands and hold it out like a dead snake. "Did he…_ask_ for these?"

Lavinia chuckles, more mischievously this time, and tucks away her slate again, giving me the same spread-hands gesture as Pollux did earlier. Avox shorthand for innocent-but-not denial of all things, I think – which probably means my answer is _yes_. I can't decide which is more embarrassing: that Peeta knows I have breasts or that he guessed I had a shortage of decent undergarments to cover them. And the rest of me.

I toss the bra back onto the pile and pick up a pair of underwear: dark purple eyelet cotton, beautifully soft beneath my fingers. They're almost too pretty to wear. Certainly too pretty for _me_.

Peeta asked for these colors. I wonder if, like Madge, he thinks I look nice in purple. I wonder why it even matters, unless he plans to see me in these garments.

And just like that, I realize there _is_ something I can offer him.

Still holding the pair of underwear, I go to the far dresser and open the second drawer. A sea of nightgowns lie within, but which is the prettiest? I take out one for consideration: sage green cotton printed with lavender sprigs, with little cap sleeves and a pale purple ribbon threaded around the neckline.

I shake out the skirt and hold the nightgown up to my body. It falls just to my knees; a summer garment, most likely, but ideal for my purpose tonight.

I come back around the bed and begin undressing in front of the fire while Lavinia watches me, perplexed. She's laid out a nightgown on the warming rack for me already, ankle-length gray wool that looks as soft as kitten fur, but I ignore it. I lay my clothes over the chair at the dressing table and slip the nightgown over my head. The cotton is crisp and cool against my bare skin and makes my nipples tighten almost painfully. I shrug off the discomfort and shimmy out of my old underwear, slipping on the purple eyelet ones instead.

I look at myself in the mirror and barely contain a gasp. I'm frighteningly thin; maybe repulsively thin. My too-prominent ribs are concealed beneath the nightgown, thankfully, and after two days of Peeta's cooking, my cheeks are no longer quite hollow, but my exposed arms are skin and bone.

I go to the near dresser and take out the first sweater to hand: Prim's pale yellow cardigan. It's too short in the sleeves, but I'm not wearing it for looks – well, not in _that_ way. _I'll take it off when he gets here,_ I reason. _Or maybe when the lights are off._

_I'll take _everything _off when he gets here,_ I realize, and shiver.

I go to the dressing table, tug the tie from my braid, and unplait the sections, brushing them out. I'm parroting Mom – those nights when she made herself beautiful to make love with my father – but I don't know what else to do. How else to charm and please.

My hair is thin and black and pin-straight, not bright and curling and lustrous like Mom's used to be, but it's still sleek and smooth from my shower last night. I wonder if Peeta will like the feel of it in his face. I wonder if I should kiss him awake tomorrow.

I wonder if he'll kiss the tip of my breast as I lean over him.

I shiver again, almost violently this time, and remind myself that I'm not afraid. I have no reason to be. I'm offering this freely to the boy I can give nothing else, and I know he'll be kind and sweet and gentle. I've felt his hands on my face, on my hands and feet as well. A chipmunk wouldn't eat from the hand of a man who would use a girl roughly.

I feel a touch at my shoulder and practically jump out of my skin. Lavinia stands beside me, her brows raised and her eyes troubled. She gestures at my clothing and unbraided hair, clearly seeking explanation, and I ask, quavering a little, "D-Do you have any perfume?"

Her face falls. She seems disappointed, almost sad, but she goes to the bathroom and returns with a tall bottle of some sort of golden oil. She gives a half-hearted shrug and uncaps the bottle – I smell heady, almost spicy flowers – and dabs a little behind my ears, at my temples, and in the stark hollow of my throat.

She caps the bottle again and looks into my eyes, shaking her head sadly. Her disapproval frightens me a little. It reminds me of the enormity of what I'm planning to do; how irrevocable the consequences will be. This particular gift I can give only once, and it's possible Peeta may not want it. What will I do if he refuses me? How will I ever face him again?

Lavinia lifts my chin with one slim hand – she's half a head taller than me – and presses her forehead against mine. It's a strangely maternal gesture, and for a moment I can almost feel my mother here. As though she's trying to tell me something, or maybe Lavinia is, but there are no words, no gestures, not even chalk marks on a slate.

Lavinia draws back at last and presses a featherlight kiss to my cheek. She shakes her head once more, a last silent plea, then she scoops up my discarded clothes and leaves the room.

My body jangling with nervous energy, I use the bathroom, wash my hands and face with the chamomile soap from the shower, and brush my teeth vigorously. A search of the bathroom cupboard quickly turns up the jar of rose-scented cream, and I rub a little over my face and hands, even work a small amount into the rough patches of my feet. I know precious little of what happens in bed with a man, but Prim's and my feet are always touching in bed, and I shudder to think of rubbing my calluses against Peeta's feet.

_Foot. _Peeta only has one real foot, and half a leg on the other side.

I remind myself that it doesn't matter, not for what I intend for us to do…but it _does_. Peeta has half a leg because a wolverine tore his right calf to bloody ribbons, and there had been no way to save both his life and his limb. I can imagine the Capitol surgeons and the doctors afterward: brisk, efficient, emotionless. Peeta was just a body to them, a body that needed to lose a part in order to survive. I give a quiet cry at the thought. Has _anyone_ shown him comfort or tenderness since his amputation? He hasn't even "asked" his girl – to marry him? to love him? to join him in this beautiful house? – yet, so it won't have been her.

I wonder if he takes off his prosthesis for bed and find it impossible to envision either way. I've seen a glimpse of Peeta's artificial limb on television, of course, but not when the rest of him was naked.

I hurry back into the bedroom, my cheeks painfully flushed. I've yet to consider how I'll actually make this happen. There's only the slightest chance that the stranger who comes to my bed _is_ Peeta, after all. If I want to share this bed with him tonight, my best bet would be to seek him out now and tell him my plan.

Which I will never in a million years be able to do.

My shivering legs bead with goose-pimples, and I quickly climb under the covers. There's only one thing to be done, then: I need to stay awake till my bed partner comes. If it's Lavinia, I can simply go to sleep, the mystery solved. If it's Peeta…I'll do _something_. I'll tell him my offer – or take my clothes off, if I can't get my tongue to work.

I wonder, not for the first time, if the sight of my naked body will send him bolting from the room. I'm dark and plain and so desperately thin. Even a kind boy like Peeta will want full, firm breasts and soft, creamy flesh beneath his hands.

_And if it's Pollux…?_ I shake my head and give a nervous chuckle. If it's Pollux, I think I'll laugh with relief before kicking him soundly back out again. He'll have no business in here anyway.

_No one_ has any business in here, not really. So who _is_ getting into this bed and lying beside me in the darkness?

There's nothing to do but wait. I lie on my side for a little, then on my back, but I'm too restless. I get up and pace the floor for a while, but that doesn't help either. The lights are all still on, leaving the room uncomfortably bright, but it feels better that way. Safer. No one can sneak in now. Whatever happens with Peeta, before the end of the night I'll have an answer to the mysterious presence in my bed.

Except time is dragging on, and no one is coming. On the past two nights, my bed partner came not long after Lavinia left me. Do they know I'm still awake? Maybe they only come after the lights are out.

I glance at the light switch but only consider it for a moment. I know my part, at least well enough to get started, but I don't think I can do it with the lights out. Strange as it seems, it would be a hundred times easier to just _tell_ Peeta that he can have me – and let him do what he will – than it would be to reach for him under the covers and explain it with touch. To run my fingers along his warm skin, or put his big hand on my breast –

I spring out of bed, dizzied by the rush of hot blood to my face, and go quickly to the dresser. The family plant book lies on top, where it's been since my first night here. My head needs clearing – or _calming_, at the very least – and there's always been something soothing about the plant book. Mom used to read to us from it when Dad was too tired to give us a song or an old tale. There were stories here too, she said, if we knew where to look.

I bring the book back to bed with me and open it carefully to the first yellowed page. _All-Heal_, it says in crabbed writing. I give an unconscious yawn and prop myself up on a hillock of downy pillows, taking care to put the pine needle ones nearest my face.

I rest the book on my ribs and begin to read. My head lolls a little, but I don't let it worry me. The room is fully lit, and I'm a hunter, with keen ears. I'm not all that tired anyway, and a little doze won't hurt. My eyes drift closed…

I wake with a start to pitch darkness and the sensation of someone standing at my bedside. I would swear I only drifted off for a moment, but apparently it was long enough. I bite down on my lip to stifle a squeak of fright. There are only three other people in this house, and none of them mean me harm.

But still I don't open my eyes.

I feel hands on my arms, shifting them ever so gently to remove the object in their grasp – the plant book. I must have fallen asleep with it hugged to my chest and my mysterious visitor is trying to put it away. They're helping to take care of my possessions and making me more comfortable all at once. So why can't I stop shaking?

I hear the book come to rest on the dresser-top, but my visitor doesn't walk around the bed like I expect. My floors may be nearly silent beneath the plush furs, but I can tell when only a few steps have been taken. The person's at my bedside again.

If ever I'm going to act, now is the time: lying here, as I am, in a pretty nightgown and fine underthings and perfume. There's no way it can end badly. If it's Lavinia in the darkness, she'll probably switch on the lights and make me exchange my nightgown for the warm one that's still on the rack. If it's Pollux…well, I'd like to think he'd know that an invitation made in this bed would not be intended for him. And really, I can't imagine Pollux being in here anyway.

If it's Peeta – if it could somehow be Peeta Mellark in the darkness, just inches from my body – he can say yes or he can say no, and right now both prospects are equally terrifying. But I have nothing else to give him – and I've gone to a lot of trouble to prepare the "offer." It's unthinkable not even to present it.

Light as breath, a hand touches my cheek, brushing a bit of hair back from my face, and I go rigid against the mattress. _Just say it! _hisses an impatient voice in my mind. _If it's Lavinia, she won't care. If it's Peeta, he might take your offer and he might not. Either way, you'll have an answer!_

I part my dry lips, but no sound comes out. I can't do this. I'm a coward.

And then I hear clearly in my mind what danced on the fringes of it before Lavinia left me for the night. My mother's voice, trembling but strong: _I know how you feel about owing, about paying people back, but Peeta might not see it that way. Please don't feel you have to give him anything he doesn't ask for._

I knew what she meant even then. Peeta hasn't asked for this, and he probably never will. He certainly won't see it as payment of any kind, and it would probably hurt him to learn that's how I intend it.

And I want, more than anything in the world, to spare Peeta Mellark any more hurt. I want him to be cherished as a friend and as a lover; to be _welcomed_ into a woman's bed, not invited out of debt or duty by a frightened girl. I want him to be happy: as wildly, gloriously happy as he keeps trying to make me.

I owe him far more than my life, and I'll pay it back, every last bit. I have to. But I'll find another way.

What we have already, I realize, is too precious to spoil. With a lifetime ahead of me in this house, Peeta and I might even be friends one day. Can I trade his easy smiles, his gentle touches, or his sweetness for a few minutes of gasping and grunting and pain, just for the hollow satisfaction of knowing I've given him the only thing of value that I possess?

Above me, the person sighs, drawing their fingers back from my cheek, and goes around to the other side of the bed. I hear the rustle of discarded clothing; feel the fur coverlet slip back a little and the weight of another's body settle opposite mine before the blankets are drawn up once more.

This too, strangely enough, I would miss. There's a comfort to my mysterious bed partner: their quiet movements as they undress, the faint extra warmth beneath the covers as they draw them up over us both. How they make their side of the bed every morning and tuck me in, so snugly. I like the sound of another's breath in the darkness, slow and soft with sleep, and would no sooner give that up than I would my pleasant meals with Peeta.

The night our bargain was made, Peeta said he wanted my company – _nothing more,_ he assured my mother. A wounded boy living in the woods, far from his family and friends, alone with two devoted but silent servants…a boy who feeds wild birds and befriended a chipmunk…Maybe that _is_ all he wants. Another human voice in this big, empty house. Someone to sit at his table, to talk with him and share his food.

Maybe even someone to lie beneath the same covers and ease him to sleep with their quiet breath.

I shake my head. This much I know for certain: whatever is happening in my bed at night is not a part of the bargain I made with Peeta. He would have said, long before now, if it were.

There are three other people in this house, all with rooms and fine beds of their own, and yet one of them comes every night under cover of darkness to share this bed of fur and pine with me. A Victor and two Avoxes…any – _all_ – of them might be plagued by brutal nightmares. Maybe they share the bed as much for their own comfort as mine.

Such a person, I realize, would be horrified to discover that their bed was shared by a scrawny, half-naked girl, perfumed and prettified in a feeble attempt to be alluring. How could I have been so _stupid?_

Deeply grateful for Prim's sweater covering the top half of my body, I curl up in a small ball, drawing in my legs like a turtle, and blush at my foolishness. Whoever is on the other side of this bed most assuredly has no interest in my bare skin, and all I've managed to accomplish by wearing the pretty nightclothes is a state of chilly discomfort. The bed is wonderfully warm as always, but I've never slept in so little. I give an impatient little shiver, longing for the heavy nightgown Lavinia chose for me, and chafe my downy legs with my palms.

There's a moment of tension from the other side of the mattress, then I feel my companion slip out from under the blankets, so carefully. I hear a soft creak from the foot of the bed – there's a chest there, I think – and suddenly I'm covered with another blanket: yet another layer of _fur_, heavy and sleek, drawn up all the way to my chin. I'm engulfed in plush, musky warmth. _Ridiculously_ warm.

My companion felt me shiver and brought me another blanket. They're taking care of me. Keeping me warm.

I tuck my face against a pine needle pillow and smile. I sleep.

_I dream of a bird – or rather, that I _am_ a bird. A small, drab, brown-black thing, not unlike the blackbirds I made a pie of on my last night at home. It's sundown in the very dead of winter, and I'm huddled in a crook of a battered apple tree, nosing hopefully with my beak through some nuts and seeds left behind by a squirrel. I find nothing but empty hulls and give a weak chirp in despair. There's no food to be had, here or elsewhere in the woods. I'll be dead of cold or hunger before the sun rises._

_I hear a whistle from below – birdlike, yet not a bird – and cock my head at the bizarre creature suddenly standing beneath my tree. The body of a white bear – a young bear – and a human head? No, it's a boy; a boy dressed in a white bearskin. A strong, stocky boy with pale yellow curls and cheeks turned pink by the cold. His gloved hand proffers a rounded brown object twice my size. He smiles up at me through the branches. His eyes are blue as a winter morning._

"_I've brought you food," he says, and his voice tugs at me strangely. "Please come down."_

_My small, keen eyes flicker suspiciously between his smiling mouth and the thing in his hand that might be food. The boy is enormous compared to me, and I'm very weak. If I leave my perch and fly down to him, he could break my neck with two fingers. If I trust him, I could die._

_If I don't trust him, I _will.

"_I'd never hurt you," he beseeches softly. "Not ever."_

_A quick death is better than a slow one, I reason. I shrug my feeble wings and hop from the perch, but I'm too weak to flutter and fall like a blind, featherless hatchling – only to be caught securely in mid-air, cupped in the boy's gloved palm. I wait for his fingers to close around me, to crush my hollow body or twist my neck, but he only smiles the wider – he seems almost ridiculous with delight. "Hello there," he says, as the townsfolk do to their old friends. "Would you like some bread?"_

_He crumbles a bit of the brown thing and sprinkles it in front of me, along the heel of his hand. It's faintly charred, like the branches the coal miner burns for heat in the little house by the lake, but it smells good. Like autumn's bounty and the pleasant decay of bright leaves beneath its last burst of sun. I peck curiously at the crumbs. There are bits of nuts – rich, nourishing nut-meats – and small brown fruits, shriveled but very sweet, and in-between are tiny flecks of something new but warm and hearty – is that bread? The thing the boy mentioned? He smells of it, I realize. Of the food in his hand, and of bear. _

_The boy makes no move to stop me from eating more and, ravenous now, I snap up bite after bite, beating the pieces that are too big against his palm to make them smaller. He laughs, a gentle rumbling sound, and rubs the too-large pieces between his fingers, breaking them down for me. I feast on burned bread with nuts and raisins from the blond boy's hand. It fills me with warmth and wholeness and life. _

_And then, as dreams go, I am in a new place – a strange place, dark and impossibly warm. I'm surrounded by thick fur and the smell of bear, and there's a resonant thumping against my whole body, the double-beat of a slow drum. For a moment I'm sure I've been eaten – maybe the boy really _was _a bear – and then I realize: no, I'm wrapped inside his bearskin coat, and the thumping is his heart. Larger and louder than my own, and so steady._

_I poke my head through a space between two of the coat's closures and peer out. It's evening in the woods now and snowing, and the cold is softer – lovely, even. I see lights – the lights of a human dwelling – far ahead, and I realize the boy came a long way to find me. To find a plain little bird and give her precious, lifesaving food. I wonder why he would do such a thing, and where he might be taking me._

_He chuckles and strokes my head with a fingertip, tucking me back inside his coat. "In with you," he teases. "We're nearly there."_

_And we are, for time moves swiftly in dreams, and the boy takes me inside a house bigger than a whole thicket of trees. A house of wood and stone, smelling of pine and spices and bread. He sheds his fur coat and gloves, then smiles down at me as he carries me with him, cupped to his chest, into a room the color of sunset, all oranges and golds. He sets me on a ledge of amber beside an enormous steaming copper box, and I watch in wonder as he prepares food. Baked pumpkin shells, crisp tidbits of apple, and all kinds of nuts and seeds. The boy chops the nuts finely and I scuttle back a ways, half-afraid I'll be the next part of the meal to meet the knife, but he sets aside the blade when he's finished to scoop up the chopped nuts in one big hand. He tosses them, along with the tiny seeds, into a long-handled pan on the steaming box and begins to shake them about._

_I'm too small to see why he's doing this, and I flutter – successfully this time – to perch on the boy's shoulder. He chuckles and turns his head to smile at me – his face is frighteningly large up close, and I skitter back to settle behind his ear. I decide I like that place very much. His pulse beats strong and steady beneath his warm skin, and I comb my beak through his pale hair, half-curious and half-preening – though why I should preen a human boy, I can hardly imagine. His light yellow curls are as soft as my own down and very thick. They would make a fine lining for a nest._

_He tosses the nut-meats and seeds till they turn golden-brown, raising a delicious aroma, then he collects the food on one large platter and carries it to a table. I know tables from looking in windows; humans eat at them. I wonder if this kind boy will let me eat here too._

_To my surprise, he sets the platter on the table, then brings a hand to his shoulder to coax me down. "Food for you," he says, indicating the platter with his other hand. "As much as you want."_

_I hop onto his hand – the skin is warm and pliant beneath my feet; it feels nicer, somehow, than his glove – and he lifts me down to the platter. "As much as you want," he says again, encouragingly this time, as he sits._

_I'm no longer starving but still I devour, hopping across the platter to try first one food, then another. The boy has chopped the apples and nuts into pieces perfectly-sized for my small beak, and the pumpkin flesh is tender. I can simply peck it up, a beak full at a time. The boy brings me bread crumbs – soft and pale this time – and a little bowl of water too, and I drink a little before hopping into the bowl and splashing happily._

_The boy laughs. I like his laugh very much and want to hear it often. I splash more and chirp out a merry little phrase._

_The boy stops laughing. He stares at me the way the coal miner stares at his pretty blonde wife when she pushes back a lock of hair that's escaped her braid. The way she looks at him before their mouths touch._

"_You're magnificent," he whispers._

_And then the table is empty and the boy is telling me, "Come, I have a place for you." He holds out a hand for me to climb onto once more._

_He's been so kind – impossibly kind – but I know about places for birds. A cage, or a bucket with holes punched in its lid. No more fresh air, no more woods and lake. I scuttle backward, away from his hand. The boy looks sad for a moment, then he smiles ever so slightly and walks out of the room._

_I follow him, of course, but cautiously and at a distance. I fly a little to catch up, then flutter to the ground and hop along silently behind him. The grass is very deep in his house, thick and cloyingly soft and strange in color. The boy comes to a terraced hill made of many, many steps, all covered with the same dense grass, and begins to climb. I can't hop up all those steps, so I wait for him to reach the top, then fly up after him._

_He disappears into a room – to get the cage, I'm sure – and I flutter down to the ground again. I hop along in the shadows at the base of the wall, curious in spite of myself, and give a startled cry when the boy's head pops around the corner, almost at my level. "Well, are you coming?" he teases. He stretches out a hand for me, and this time I perch on it and let him carry me into the room._

_The boy has brought the woods indoors. The room he carries me into is made of trees and craggy rocks and fur and smells just like the forest. Like pine sap and woodsmoke and the musk of thick winter fur. "I made this place for you," the boy says softly. "Do you like it?"_

_Who would do this for one drab little bird? Who would craft the woods inside four sturdy walls, solely for the comfort of a small, wild creature?_

_I could live here forever. _

_The room is centered around a huge rectangle of dark wood and fur – a bed, I think. Humans sleep in them, kiss and gasp and embrace in them. The boy sets me on a cushion, fragrant with pine needles, near the top of the bed and tugs up a fur cover to tuck around me – making me a nest, of sorts._

_Then the room is dark, lit only by firelight, and the boy is gone – or is he? I hear soft human sounds in the darkness, feel the bed shift slightly. I ruffle my feathers and try to bed down in the fur, but I feel restless, as though something's missing._

_The boy. _

_He's a part of this – of baked pumpkin and roasted nuts, of laughter and bath bowls and fires that warm but don't burn. He's a part of _me _now,_ _like a bone or a blood feather. Something I can no longer live without. I push out of the fur and hop across the broad expanse of the bed._

_The boy is lying on the opposite side, seemingly asleep, his eyes closed and an arm thrown above his head, and I climb up the fur cover to reach his chest. The cover stops just above his waist and he's bare beneath it; my small clawed feet meet warm tender skin and fine pale hair as I walk up his body, but it feels right, somehow. Good. I wear only my skin and feathers, after all; it's natural that the boy should be likewise, at least in slumber._

_I stare at his face for a moment, then bend to rub my head against his chest, just over his heart. I hardly know why. I tell myself it's to get his attention, and it succeeds. His eyes flutter open, their thick pale fringes glinting in the firelight. "What was that for?" he whispers._

I like you,_ my tiny heart clamors. _I like this place. I belong with you. _But I'm a bird, and the only sounds to leave me are quiet, confused chirrups._

_The boy gives me a sad smile. "Me too," he answers softly. He lifts a hand and strokes my cheek with a gentle fingertip, making me close my eyes. It feels exquisite._

_I walk up a little further and settle into the hollow of his throat, ruffling my feathers once more and tucking my head under my wing. The boy's skin is even warmer than the fur cover, and his pulse beats like a gentle drum against my belly._

_He sighs deeply, and his breath fans my back like the first breeze of summer. "Welcome home, Katniss," he murmurs. His hand rests over me, cocooning me all around with the warmth of his flesh. _

Home, _I think._ _Fruit. Seeds. Warmth. Nestlings._

Nestlings?

_I think of how fine a mate this boy would be, with his big gentle hands, soft voice, and warm skin. This one would have no trouble feeding his chicks, lulling them to sleep, or keeping them warm._

_I think of a nest woven of apple twigs and pine needles and supple willow vines, lined with tufts of white bear's fur and locks of soft yellow hair. I think of two speckled eggs nestled within, pillowed upon dandelion petals and downy willow catkins, and of a mate who would cradle them against his heart._

_I sleep._

* * *

**Author's Note:** The "old folk song" that Katniss recalls her father singing is "Whispering Pines," made famous by country/rockabilly musician Johnny Horton (1925-1960). Sometimes called "The Singing Fisherman," Johnny (whose middle name, incidentally, was Gale ;D) is a major inspiration behind my version of Mr. Everdeen, particularly in regard to his singing voice. If you're curious what Mr. Everdeen sounds like in my head, definitely give Johnny a listen (especially "Whispering Pines," "All for the Love of a Girl," and/or the haunting "When It's Springtime in Alaska (It's Forty Below)") – and if you have the chance, check out his _Live Recordings from the Louisiana Hayride_. There's some amusing banter with the host throughout, and Johnny tells a story about fishing that is (my) Mr. Everdeen all over the place. :D

If anyone cares, my mental image of Katniss-as-a-bird in the dream sequence was the same black-billed nightingale-thrush that Faramir!Peeta was picturing when he called Eowyn!Katniss _dúlinn_ in my LOTR/THG crossover, "The Steward and The Bow-Maiden." (Said dream sequence is also a _very _delicate nod to Hans Christian Andersen's "The Nightingale." :D) I'll link to a pic in my profile if you care to see.

Finally, as promised, here is SythiaSkyfire's lovely fan-poem. Good night, my children. :D

_Stranger, stranger, in the night,  
__Almost silent - but not quite.  
__Once a moan and once a sigh,  
__Did your words bid you goodbye?  
__Tell me, for I want to know,  
__What do you seek? Where do you go?  
__You long for something, I can tell,  
__So throw a wish inside a well.  
__Gaze upon a shooting star,  
__I hope your wish will take you far.  
__Stranger, stranger, in my bed,  
__The sheets are warm, you fill my head.  
__I shake a little in my fright,  
__But even so, my dear, goodnight._

~SythiaSkyfire


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